100 Ways to Cope With Cancer
by three-golden-mockingjays
Summary: Katniss and Peeta are sixteen years old, and not battling the Hunger Games, but one of the most feared diseases in the world. Love and death aren't met to mix, but they are both fiercely present in the lives of these two sick teens as they fight for their lives.
1. Think About Your Facts

_Ways to cope with cancer_

_1. Think about your facts_

* * *

The air is alive with heat, and the world is asleep with it. I lie on the grass under a tree, looking up at the dusk sky. The temperature is still well above forty degrees. It is easy to feel dead on a day like today.

* * *

_Cancer is a destructive disease. It attacks the body's cells, organs and tissues. These are the basic building blocks of human life. When they are under attack, we die._

* * *

But you're not dead Katniss, I tell myself. Because I'm not. Think about the facts Katniss. Facts have always calmed me down.

* * *

_One in three women will be diagnosed with cancer before turning 85._

* * *

So much death.

* * *

_ Lymphoma is the most common kind of blood cancer._

_In 2009, approximately 5,500 Australians are projected to be diagnosed __with lymphomas; the equivalent of 12 people every day. _

_Of these, most __(89%) have non-Hodgkin lymphoma._

* * *

Those bastards in the 11%. Hodgkin lymphoma has a much higher survival rate.

"You thinking about your facts again?" I look up drowsily and see Peeta walking slowly towards me. He sits down next to me on the grass, "You've got that weird look in your eyes."

* * *

_Approximately 30 to 60 percent of people with aggressive non-Hodgkin lymphoma can be cured._

_I have a 51.3% chance of living the next ten years._

* * *

Not great chances if you think about it.

I nod, "Yeah, I'm thinking about my facts."

Peeta also has cancer. His is in his kidneys. Neither of us have brilliant chances of surviving long term, but we're doing okay. His is worse than mine.

"I thought you had EBRT today," Peeta says, looking at me curiously. He is referring to my current form of treatment, external beam radiation therapy, or ERBT for short. Half an hour a day, every weekday.

"It's Saturday silly," I say, briefly closing my eyes and he laughs and says, "So it is."

* * *

_With kidney cancer, his chance of surviving five years is 61.8%._

* * *

"Facts don't really work for me," Peeta sums up, pulling some grass out of the ground.

"Don't kill it!" I am stricken for whatever reason, slapping his hand, "It's survived the heatwave, where most of the grass died, and now you're going to go kill it! That's not fair!"

Peeta looks at me sadly, and I realise why. Why I care so much about this grass. It represents me. After barely surviving starvation after my father died and my mother became depressed, I was diagnosed with lymphoma - the worst kind. Out of the fire, and into the frying pan.

"I've got to go down to the shopping strip," I sigh in the silence following my outburst.

"What do you need?" Peeta asks in surprise. I rarely go shopping if I can help it.

"A funeral dress for Rue's tomorrow. And a watering can."

"A watering can?" Peeta chooses to ignore the topic of Rue's funeral, as we both do if we can help it.

Rue was a twelve year old we had met at the cancer ward at the Children's, the very same place I had properly met Peeta four years ago. Rue was a sweet child with a very vicious case of leukaemia, and always smiled despite the fact she had had a death sentence placed on her aged only twelve years old. Well, she almost managed to smile the whole time. But for her last few days she didn't stop crying. She realised she liked it in the world, and realised the immediacy of her death. As I said, she didn't stop crying after that, not until her lungs gave out at least. There were just four months between her diagnosis and her passing.

I locked myself in my room for three days solid after she died. It had destroyed all my hope of cancer being sparing and sympathetic. After watching it take the purest, best part of humanity away, I gave up. I was convinced of my own demise, and that of everyone around me. Life was no longer beautiful.

"A watering can," I confirm, "Because you and I will be coming to water this grass daily as long as the drought keeps up. Now come on," I grab his hand and pull him to his feet, "We're going shopping."

I end up buying the typical sombre black funeral dress, along with a white watering can, as it was the only one I can afford. I much prefer the yellow spotty one, but it is a whole twelve dollars out of my price range, despite my efforts to buy the cheapest good quality dress I can find.

Couldn't go to Rue's funeral wearing something trashy.

I sigh with the stupidity of it all. If Rue were alive to tell us, I have a hunch we'd all be wearing yellow sundresses. But she isn't.

And who knows? A year from now, it might be my sister Prim shopping for a black dress for my funeral. It could be me, putting on my black head scarf for Peeta's funeral. I hate myself for the thought that crosses my mind. _Lucky the second one is the more realistic._

We avoid planning our lives. We could be gone any day now. A PET scan can come back bad. You could get a visit from Dr. Haddington, who every cancer kid at the Children's dreads. He's the one given the job of telling those kids who are going to die soon that they are going to die soon.

We are brutally enlightened on the secrets of life and death, us cancer kids. For some of us, it would be a smarter move to plan our funerals than our colleges.

It's just the way it is. Life's not beautiful, not for everyone.

* * *

**I understand that the layout for this was a bit weird, but for some reason, I felt like I needed to separate the 'facts' from the actual story. So it turned out like that. I hope it wasn't annoying or whatever, but the next few chapters will focus on different things and won't look like that one.**

**I'd really like to hear your opinions on this story, because I was very nervous about writing it, so please, if I am doing a horrible job, just tell me. Any ideas or criticism or whatever, I want to hear it. -L**


	2. Grit Your Teeth

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts_

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.)_

* * *

Rue's funeral is in a church. I should have guessed, her parents are madly Catholic after all. But all of it is so painfully wrong for Rue that it takes all my effort not to scream.

I'm stronger than you'd think. So I don't scream. I sit there with my hands folded in my lap and my teeth clenched as I listen to people go on about Rue and crying in the middle of their speeches and having to walk outside into the heat to calm down. These people should get a grip, just for a moment. It's not that hard. Look at me, I'm not even screaming as we sit here in a building that is working hard to destroy our memories of what Rue ever was.

I cringe as a woman goes on about Rue's bravery in the face of a horrible disease.

Because Rue was not a girl to sit in church and believe unquestioningly in a higher being. I have no issue with Catholics, or any other followers of religion, but this just isn't who Rue was. And it's killing me.

I grit my teeth. I clench my fists. But I just can't deal with it any more. Can't deal with the ceremony that is so wrong for Rue. Can't deal with all the death.

In self defense, I am just following the Ways of Coping when I get up and run out of the church.

* * *

Peeta found me when I was starving to death in the streets.

He found me when I ran out of the ward after losing my hair and regaining strength from my first dose of chemo.

He found me when I was eating in the girl's toilets rather than face people at lunch. I didn't want to show them my hair, or lack thereof. I didn't want to hear their apologies when they just didn't understand. But Peeta knew all of this, and he came for me, and didn't complain when he got a detention for going into the girl's toilets.

And half an hour ago, Peeta found me once more, huddled under a tree surrounded by flowers, which I couldn't help but think of Rue. This should be her final resting place. This should be the place where people tell fond stories of her as a pre-diagnosed, happy little girl. But instead, this is the place Peeta hugs me as I cry and cry and cry.

Running certainly doesn't help solve your cancer problems, and gritting your teeth is so useless it is almost unspeakable. Peeta and I may have to negotiate taking it off The List. We started it and are currently the only contributors after all.

But when I suggest it to Peeta, he shakes his head sadly. "Rue came up with that one, remember?"

I don't want to seem devoid of empathy, but I don't see how that makes any difference. It's not like Rue would be offended or anything, and if she would, it's not exactly like spirits or the afterlife exist. There is no need to keep a useless idea just because the creator of that idea is dead, out of respect or whatever.

Stop it Katniss, I mentally chide myself. You sound like a psychopath. Rue was your friend. Have some respect. But I guess seeing death so frequently, and having it loom over you so constantly, makes you appreciate the realness of it all.

Death is the end. Period.

* * *

**Short chapter - sorry about that. Thank you so much for the reviews first chapter, you've really gave me some confidence to tackle this whole issue in the story. I'm really enjoying it now, as depressing as it is. Poor little Rue :( -L**


	3. Break the Law

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts_

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

* * *

Undoubtedly, the worst thing I have ever done when I decided to use No. 3 on our List is steal a car. That was with Rue and Peeta, but unfortunately, we didn't get very far as none of us were particularly adept drivers. We told Rue we would take her to see her pony in the country, but we didn't even make it out of town. How unfortunate.

I'll tell you what's unfortunate. A few days after that, Rue was permanently stuck in bed. She didn't get out between then and her death. She never saw her pony again. But she kept the 'Unlicensed Driving' written explanation the police had written up to explain our breaking of the law to our parents with her constantly, like some twisted form of a good luck charm. When she was too far gone to hold it anymore, let alone read it, I tucked it under her pillow.

Not that it gave her much luck in the end.

Peeta assures me that this car stealing will be much more successful as we have his brother on our side, whose existent driving skills make up for his insufferable personality. If I had even minimal driving skills I would turn him down, but unfortunately I do not have even the smallest knowledge of driving, and neither does Peeta, which is why we are stuck with Ryan as a chauffeur.

After nabbing Mr Mellark's keys from the table, as stealing another stranger's car would probably get us incarcerated, we hop into the old Ford.

"Where are we off to today, my good man?" Ryan asks his brother in a horrible British accent, and Peeta rolls his eyes, "We're going to the beach Rye."

A smile begins to work it's way onto my face. I've always loved the beach.

Ryan scowls at him, "Don't call me Rye." Way to ruin the mood.

We turn the music up loud, and I manage to enjoy myself, forgetting about Ryan in the front and focusing on Peeta in the backseat next to me.

"I won't go home without youuuuuuuuu, I won't go home without you!" we sing together - Peeta loudly and out of tune, me slightly softer but hitting all the notes. I marvel at his confidence.

Peeta smiles at me, "I love seeing you smile for once Kat."

"You make me sound like a morbid emo," I scowl at him, and he face palms, "I ruined it!"

"Katniss, you are a morbid emo," Ryan contributes from the front, and I let Peeta tell him off on my behalf. There is something flattering about the way he stands up for me, and I silently vow to enjoy it while I can.

We're near the beach, I can tell. Ice-cream shops and cars with surfboards dominate the view. In the background the sea rolls on without end, a blue expanse reaching its fingers towards the horizon. People walk around in tank tops and bikini bottoms, bare feet and board shorts. That's when it occurs to me, "Peeta, you've surprised me too well. I don't have my bathers."

He gives me a winning smile, "But we have my credit card."

Oh, Peeta.

We go into Seafolly, which is far too expensive for me to ever go into before, and I grab a whole heap of bathers to try on. Roses, polka dots, block colours. Frills and boy legs and bandeaus. Blood red, sunset orange, lime green. I try on a lot of bathers.

Ryan gets fed up with me and walks off to the bar for a drink, but Peeta stays. He picks out a few pairs for me to try on. Olive green strapless bikinis, a halter neck in stunning orange, a beautiful one piece in a ludicrous pattern of the rainforest. Toucans and leopards look back at me in the glass mirror.

I examine my reflection critically. I am too skinny from all my treatment. When girls see me walk down the street, they whisper behind my back. Words like anorexic, bulimia and skeleton waft past my ears.

If you look closely at my neck, there is something subtly wrong with it you couldn't place your finger on if you didn't know. One symptom of lymphoma is the swelling of your lymph nodes, and while clear visible differences are very rare, if you know me well enough, you can tell something's happened to my neck. It's slightly fuller. Swollen.

My hair is growing back now, it's been a fair while since my last dose of chemo. The doctors reckon ERBT is working just fine for me. But still, it's short. Peeta once told me that I looked like Fantine or whatever her name was in 'Les Miserables,' but I think he was lying, as Anne Hathaway, the person who portrays her, is pretty much the most beautiful person ever.

And I am not.

I get dressed back into my shorts and hoodie, painfully dull in such a beautiful store full of beautiful clothes. I gather the many pairs of bathers in my hands. I put some back, but am left with the olive green bandeau, the very revealing orange string bikini, despite it not being something I would usually wear, a blue checked pair and the crazy one piece Peeta found me.

"Which one are you getting?" Peeta asks me as I examine the four pairs of bathers I have in my hands.

"I don't know," I answer honestly, "I can't decide."

"Well, I know I'm a guy and know nothing about clothes and everything, but I think they all look really pretty on you," he looks at me thoughtfully, "You know what? We'll take them all."

On the trip to the counter, Peeta manages to jam a broad white sun hat onto my head, put some sunglasses on my face and hold a short red dress to my chest. "We'll have to buy these ones too."

I get changed in the back of his car while he goes to get Ryan, and by the time the two Mellark brothers return, I swear to God I'm a completely new person. I'm wearing the strapless one piece, toucans and all, under the red dress, which seems even shorter on, the sunnies are in my hair and the hat in my hand. My feet are bare, my old Converses discarded on the floor, and I have taken the time to put on a touch of makeup, just enough to make me look a little nicer.

If you ignore my short hair, my pointy ribs, my swollen neck, my pale and blemished skin, and focus on my smile, I almost look healthy.

Almost.

* * *

**Bit of an uneventful chapter here, but I thought it was necessary to put this is in before they go to the beach, which I have a feeling will be a VERY long chapter. We'll see what I can do. 3 reviews was a little sad last chapter, but I should stop complaining. You've given me tons of support, and I'm grateful. -L**


	4. Risk Your Life

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts_

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

* * *

It sounds stupid, to throw your life away like the List suggests, when we are lucky enough not to be the dead ones. But I don't care.

The thing about risking your life is that it takes everything away for a while. All your troubles, all your sickness and your nightmares melt away in comparison with the rush of life that comes from being close to death.

So you can maybe understand why sitting there on the beach, or even swimming, isn't enough for Peeta and I. Maybe you can understand why we decide to climb the stone cliff that overhangs the water. Peeta never used to be this bold, but I guess being told you have a 61.8% chance of living the next five years changes you.

The path is steep, and I can feel my lungs burn and my muscles begin to go weak. I haven't felt this sick in a long time, but I ignore it. Peeta notices and picks me up, sweeping me off the ground and into his arms, bridal style. But he's not much better off than I am, and puts me down after about a hundred metres.

But in the end, we make it. We are sickeningly high. The whitecaps are small beneath us, rolling serenely over water so deep it appears black.

"See any rocks?" he asks me.

"Nope." There is no need to verbally express the fact that we are going to jump. From fifteen metres off a cliff, we are going to jump into the ocean. "It looks deepest over here." I point into the darkest patch of water.

"Deepest point or rock under the surface?" Peeta muses, looking at the dark space under the rolling surface of the water.

I shake my head numbly, I don't want to think about any of that. For every time your life flashes before your eyes, there is that gut wrenching time in anticipation that makes you want to sneak back into your bed and die a slow death by cancer. But between Peeta and I, one of us will manage to convince the other to do it, whatever it may be.

"Don't worry about that Peeta," I say, gritting my teeth and trying hard not to think of Rue as I do so, "We're doing it."

I grip his hand as tightly as my weak fingers will allow. Time goes by in flashes. Someone on the shore points to us. A crowd gathers. There are screams of, "Don't do it!" The lifeguards ready their boat. My heart begins to pump faster. My palms are sweaty in Peeta's. My mouth is dry.

Oh, the joys of being alive.

None of those things can compare to the thrill when we finally jump. We take a run up to get some air, and together, hands joined, we go hurtling off the edge of that cliff at full pelt, legs cycling uselessly in the air, mouths opened wide in thrilled screams. The adrenaline is unbelievable.

Hitting the water, not so much.

I don't go too badly, my feet get a good whack, but I am pretty much a pin, sliding into the enveloping water smoothly. I just wish I could say the same for Peeta.

He was never as coordinated as me. In fact, it was the first thing I noticed. When he threw me that bread, he missed me by about three metres. In the cancer ward, I could run rings around him when we were both wheelchair bound. In the school hallways his footsteps were always loud and flat, which drove me to the brink of madness when we tried to skulk silently through the hallways unnoticed. His loud, slapping footsteps and more than occasional falls always managed to draw more eyes our way than I could handle.

Peeta hits the water on an angle, I can tell from the awkward force pulling on my arm and the cry of pain as we plummet into the icy depths of the water. When our faces emerge, his is white.

"Katniss," he gasps, "My leg!"

"Hang on a moment Peeta," I swim towards him in clumsy breaststroke. I hold his trembling hand, "Are you okay?"

He shakes his head and doesn't say a word, which is when I know it's really bad. A wave breaks over our heads, and I try as hard as I can to hold his head above the quickly approaching water. Needless to say, it doesn't make much difference.

As the army of white water charges towards us, I am reminded inexplicably of the myth that the whitecaps are Neptune's horses. Then I make the decision to drag him under the wave with me.

We look up as the mythical horses of water run over our heads. I see their footfalls send bursts of white bubbles down into the blue were we stay, suspended in the weightlessness of the ocean. As we rise up into the diminishing wave, everything fades to white, like when someone dies in a movie.

If this is what death is really like, I welcome it with open arms. Never have I felt so serene.

But when our heads break the surface once more, the chaos returns. The lifeguards have made their way out to us, and a strong arm belonging to a blonde boy hauls me into the boat. I see a small but evidently very strong brunette girl pull Peeta up next to me.

"He's broken his ankle," the girl says grimly as the boy looks on. "Don't just stand there, the medicine bag is right behind you."

The boy blushes and fumbles for the bag, then hands it to her. "Ta," she doesn't look up at him as she takes the bandages out, "Give him a painkiller, will you?"

He tears his eyes away from the admittedly pretty girl, and pulls out a box of painkillers, which Peeta swallows gratefully. A red head speaks, surprising me simply with her presence.

"Safe to move?" she asks the brunette, who is clearly the unspoken leader of the group.

"Let me strap his ankle first, this boat rocks around like a bucking horse when your driving is coupled up with this surf Fox," the girl says with a bandage tie between her teeth, not looking up from Peeta.

I should be focusing on the fact that Peeta's ankle is broken, but all I can think is _who calls their friend Fox?_

I lean back against the boat. It's just a broken ankle. He'll be fine. The waves glitter as they roll along. Peeta's fine. He's got some painkiller, no more pain.

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

"What drugs did you give him?" I ask the boy urgently. He looks at me, clearly alarmed, but takes it out of the bag anyway, throwing it to me, "There you go."

The packet is green. Oh God. I look frantically for the active ingredient, but in my panic, I simply can't find it.

"Crysocycline," Fox points it out to me, "Is there a problem?"

I nod, a lump swelling in my throat, "He's got cancer. He's on medication. That'll kill him. They're not meant to mix."

"Shit," she says under her breath, getting the boat started with surprising speed, "Cato, take the boat, I'm calling 000!"

The boy - Cato - moves to take the boat, and Fox calls 000 quickly. She does everything quickly, I note.

"What service do you require?" I hear the phone ask.

"Ambulance."

"Where is your location?"

"Point Hart's beach."

There is a moment's wait while the machine gives way to a person, "What is the situation?"

"We've got a boy here with a broken ankle. We've given him a Crysocycline painkiller, and his friend has just told us that he's on cancer medication which will kill him if they mix."

"How old is the male in question?"

Fox looks at me expectantly, and I tell her sixteen and ten months, which she repeats to the person.

"What medication is he on?"

She looks at me again. I begin to cry, "I don't know what it's called."

"We don't know."

"An ambulance will be there as soon as possible."

It doesn't take me long to realise I am hyperventilating, and I feel sick, sick, sick. I feel dizzy as hell. My heart is jumping around like a frantic bird trapped in my rib cage.

Then my body is merciful enough to take me away from all pain. I faint.

* * *

**You asked for drama, and drama you have received! Just for the record I have made up Point Hart's beach, and Crysocycline painkiller. I no very little about medications mixing, except that it can be bad, and in this case IT IS. I'm going to be getting pretty busy soon, but hopefully I'll get a chapter up quick.**

**Oh, and yes, I felt it completely necessary to put Clove, Cato and Foxface in, even if they were only lifeguards. -L**


	5. Be Antagonistic

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. Be antagonistic. Be VERY antagonistic._

* * *

I am one of those sad people who can honestly say that waking up in hospital doesn't surprise them. That might give you an idea of how many miserable hours I have wasted away in white sheets under a white roof, connected to tubes and being analysed and tested in every aspect there is.

So when I woke up a few minutes ago, my first thought was not _what am I doing here?_ but _where's Peeta?_

I look around. I rub my eyes. Everything hurts. I look around again with clearer eyes, and don't see any nurses or doctors. The ward is silent. Perfect.

I pull out my drip and get out of bed, looking down at my body. I'm not surprised to see myself in a hospital gown. If they lost my bathers they'll have me to answer to… yes, all underweight 40kg of sick cancer girl, thrown at them. They won't stand a chance.

Oh God. Listen to me.

I find the ward receptionist, and ask her with as much confidence as I can muster, "Where might I find Peeta Mellark?"

She looks at me with a small smile. I fight back my own. My mission to visit Peeta is on its way to success. "One moment sweetie," she says, and begins to type something into her computer. Is it possible? Is she really going to let me visit him? Is she really this unimaginably stupid?

Oh dear. She's talking into her headset. "Dr. Avary! Yes, I've found your missing patient. Trying to visit a friend." She looked at me cautiously and dropped her voice, "I think she's still a bit out of it. Confused."

All of a sudden, I find my arm lunging forward to grab the headset off the woman. She screams, but doesn't put up much of a fight, and I throw it away across the room, then turn to walk away.

Unfortunately, the bloody receptionist has attracted a whole lot of attention and I find doctors, nurses, students, you name it, all coming at me. _Yes, come, and come in waves. You will need an army to take me down._ I'm just a bloody cancer kid. No need to call in the army.

When I end up back at that regular hospital bed in the strange ward, (unknown to me, which is saying something,) I am greeted by the sight of my mother and my younger sister Prim. It's pretty clear who raised the alarm here.

My mother stands up as I walk in with my escort, a tired looking nurse who seems relieved to get away from whatever he was doing previously. "Thank you," she says to him simply, in that tone that she has always spoken in since dad died.

"Good luck," he looks directly at me with a sad smile, and I scowl at him, "I've got cancer you idiot. Don't you understand? You can't tell me to have good luck. You can't tell me to survive. Because I can't control it! And neither can you!"

He opens his mouth, and I cut him off with a, "And don't you dare say sorry either! There are other people you should be saving. You don't care about me."

And so he walks out of the door with a sad exhalation - the worst kind - and I death stare him as he does so. When he finally disappears down the hall, he's a slow walker - the worst kind - I turn to my mum, who is looking at me, scandalised.

"Katniss," she says gently, hugging me tightly. I stiffen in her arms. I wasn't a mummy's girl to begin with, and after dad died, my mum got depressed and I got diagnosed… well, let's just say things didn't sit well after all that. Nothing's healed. And it never will.

I pull out of mum's arms, and cut off her option to speak by saying to Prim, "How's Peeta?"

"He's not awake, but he'll be okay," Prim says, but her face is devoid of a smile.

"What's up Prim?" I sit down on the hospital bed, and sit her next to me. I'll do anything to make her smile, but now that I think about it, I haven't seen one in days.

"It's nothing Katniss," she says evasively, and turns away from me. Mum, sensing my upcoming outburst, gets the car keys out of her pocket and after a quick talk to the apparent Dr. Avary, who discharges me happily, ushers us out of the hospital.

"Katniss."

I wind down the window and stick my head out so that all I can hear is the howling of the wind whipping my hair around my face and not my mother. The glass knocks into my chin, and I pull my head back into the car to glare at my mother as she pulls the window back up, forcing me into socialising. Ugh.

My mouth is sealed shut, I refuse to initiate conversation. So I sit tight and wait for mum to make a move. She will eventually. And she does.

"Katniss, we're going to have to stop potentially Peeta-killing expeditions from now on," she says calmly, indicating to turn.

"We had fun," I say stubbornly.

"I don't think Peeta had fun," she says softly, and I hold back tears.

"You don't know Peeta! You don't know me! You don't understand any of this!" all of a sudden I'm screaming, my eyes surprisingly, brutally, dry, "There is every chance that I will die before I turn thirty. How am I supposed to live a normal life when I know that I will die before I have a chance to do everything I've ever wanted to do? I have to live now! And Peeta - he's sick. He pretends he isn't, but he's really sick. I've seen it in the way he walks, the way he does those silent little exhalations of pain, how he has to sit down because he gets dizzy. He's going to die soon, and he's going to die before me, and that's the truth of it mum!"

The lights go red and the car pulls to a halt as my mum looks at me with mournful eyes. I almost feel bad.

Then, before I can do something stupid like cry, I open the car door and run all the way home.

* * *

"Goodnight little duck," I say as the tennis set finishes and mum sends Prim to bed.

"'Night," she mumbles, avoiding my eyes, and runs up the stairs.

I open my mouth to ask, _"What was that all about?"_ but I decide against it. I'm not going to accept the possibility that lately mum has become closer to Prim than I am. Because that could never happen. I've always been Prim's favourite. If I don't know what's wrong with Prim, then there's no way mum does.

Oh, I wish.

"When was the last time you had a conversation with your sister?" mum asks me, and I roll my eyes, "Oh, I don't know, two seconds ago?"

She looks at me sadly, but not pityingly, which is good, because we both know I can't stand pity. "A proper one. Where you talked about nice things and she laughed and you smiled…" she trails off and looks upwards, as though imagining a world where I smile.

What a bullshitty world.

"Prim and I are as close as we've ever been. If I remember correctly, you're the one who has trouble connecting," I don't feel guilty as I deliver these low blows. I don't have the time.

"Oh Katniss, stop doing this! Stop acting like everything's my fault! Stop acting like everything between you and Prim is fine! Stop acting like you haven't gone and done what I did when your father died!" she bursts angrily.

I take my eyes away from her as I can't bear to look any longer. I watch Raonic ace Federer. I can still feel mum's eyes on me. But I can't return her gaze, because she's exactly right.

All these years I have resented her for her depression after dad died, for zoning out and leaving us to cope with the world. And I've done it too, and worse. I haven't sat in bed with a silent and blank sigh. I've been cruel. I've been antagonistic. I've been judgmental. I've almost killed my best friend.

And most of all, I have been hopelessly, overwhelming selfish.

I think about Prim. When she was eight, her father died. She almost starved to death. Her fate too, depended on Peeta Mellark's kindness.

When she was eight, her older sister was diagnosed with cancer. And for the following four years, she has coped. She hasn't complained once. She has always been sweet, she has always been comforting, and best of all, she has never cried.

If there is one thing I can't stand, it is people who make a habit of bursting into noisy tears at the sight of one of my scans, or my hairless scalp, or when I tell them I am waiting for a bone marrow transplant, or when I bombard them with the tirade of facts that keeps me going, however dim they make my future out to be.

But Prim is an optimist, and I need her for that. She believes I can survive. No-one else does. For some, I am a lost cause. One teacher has stopped setting me homework, stopped chasing up my work in class. She doesn't care what I learn, because she earnestly doesn't believe I'll live long enough to sit my year twelve exams.

Over the past few years I have been an emotional roller-coaster One day I will go and do something daring and potentially life-risking, and then I'll be locking myself up in my room for days on end. Then I'll come out with the sole purpose of bitching at everyone. And then, chances are, I'll soon end up in hospital for whatever reason.

And Prim has coped with all of that. But lately, now that I think about it, I fear that the trip to the beach was the straw that broke the camel's back. No-one can be that strong. Heck, I'm definitely not that strong. If I was, none of this fighting would be happening. It's all my fault. I'm the one who broke this family

"I'm going to bed," I announce with a dry mouth, "Federer will win, straight sets. Nothing to watch," I gabble on pointlessly, then shut my mouth decisively and walk upstairs before I say anything stupider than I already have.

_'Prim and I are as close as we've ever been.'_ Haha. That's a funny one Katniss.

On my way to bed, I pass Prim's door. I can't help but stop at it. How many nights have I spent in this room, under Prim's covers, with torches illuminating our faces as we talk long into the night? Oh, an eternity.

But not much at all recently. I try to remember the last time, but I simply can't place it. Stories and crushes and netball games all blur into one, told by the same voices under the same patched quilt. Seems it's a thing of the past now, however sad that truth may be.

I place my hand on the doorknob, and without thinking of what I'll say, I grip the door tightly and begin to open it.

It's locked.

Prim never locks her door. I put my ear against the wood, and hear the last sound on earth I want to hear. I hear the muffled sobs of a twelve year old girl.

* * *

**Well this is a sad one - I've managed to depress myself! Poor Prim. Poor Katniss. Poor Mrs Everdeen. Poor secretary Katniss attacked. The list goes on. **

**Unfortunately, there won't be another update for probably a good week or so, as I have swim camp starting tomorrow, and after that, my parents are going away, and my brothers and I will be traversing Melbourne, staying with several relatives, as we are far too annoying to burden just one of them with. We are best in small doses, apparently.**

**Next chapter - much more Peeta! Although I am going to point out that this story is restricted to Katniss' POV only. -L**


	6. Forget the Bad Days

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

* * *

"Katniss!" I hear my mum holler up the stairs, bringing me out of my sleep induced haze. I lift my head slightly, and am bombarded by rays of light hitting my still shut eyes. I duck my head back under the covers.

I hear my door click open, and before I can stop it happening, my covers are cast off the bed, my curtains pushed apart.

"Stop!" I wail, "My retinas!"

"Are you always this bad in the morning?" I am shocked to hear not my mum's voice, but Prim's, "No wonder it always take her so long." She grabs my arms and pulls me upright, into a sitting position, "There we go."

I force my eyes open, despite what I believe to be brighter than normal light being concentrated on my face, and take a moment to simply look at her. Prim's hair is in a bun on top of her head, and she's wearing some skinny jeans and a pink tank top. I notice, for the first time, that my little sister is growing up. That my little sister is pretty. God, cancer is just one epiphany after another.

After folding a pile of clothes that have taken residence on my floor pretty much since I bought them, she turns to me with a smile, "And so the monster wakes."

I marvel at the patch of floor before me, it's been hidden that long. "Morning," I say, lifting myself off the bed into a standing position with difficulty, "Woah, not happening!" I lose my balance and collapse back onto the mattress in a mixture of cancer and sleep induced weakness.

Prim looks at me with concern, "You alright?"

I shake my head, "I'm never alright until half an hour after I wake up."

"I see," she observes my form, spread-eagled across the bed. She attempts to pull me up, and I fall back down, "God you're hopeless!" she laughs.

Five or so minutes later, once I actually manage to get to my feet and remain so, Prim is still in her good mood and I am determined not to ruin it. I pour myself some cereal while she puts some toast in the toaster - we're stark opposites when it comes to food - while mum rushes out the door for her nursing shift, jabbering on about the arrangement for Mrs Mellark to take Prim and I to the hospital for my ERBT and his visit, with a bamboozling super-human speed. Lucky Prim can understand her blabbering, because I have no idea where or when anything is going to happen.

"You're perfect Prim," I say placidly in the silence following my mother's hasty and very noisy exit. Yes, that was another Prim-related epiphany.

She looks at me, slightly shell-shocked, "Has that cancer spread to your brain?"

I smile wryly at her. Prim is the only person I would ever let pun on my illness, "You'd better hope it hasn't. I just… really love you Prim. You're an angel. You're flawless. Yeah..." I peter out lamely, then laugh to myself.

'Peeta' out. Instead of peter out.

Oh, get a life Katniss.

"I wish," Prim grumbles as she takes a bite out of her toast, pulling me out of my stupid little Peeta pun universe, "I wish I were flawless."

"Ah shit…" milk spills across my lap, "My pants!" I try to absorb it with a tissue, then give up on my fruitless attempts and concentrate on my sister instead, "Come on Prim," I say with a final, slightly more coordinated slurp of milk, "Everyone loves you."

Prim sighs, "Not everyone."

"As if," I say breezily, putting my bowl in the dishwasher, which takes a lot of clumsy pushing and shoving in the full dishwasher, "Everybody loves… oh!" I give a great and very much drawn out gasp of realisation, for it is then that I realise, Prim has someone she wants to notice her. "Who is it?" I ask promptly as she too stands up and fits her plate into the crowded dishwasher.

Prim inhales deeply, then spits out the name so fast I have to get her to repeat it. "Rory Hawthorne," she says much more clearly, then gives a little gasp and covers her mouth like she's done something wrong.

An infectious smile creeps onto my face, and I wordlessly beckon her upstairs with me as I go to change out of my milk-ruined pants. "Rory Hawthorne eh?" I wriggle out of my leggings and cast them onto the floor. Prim scurries over to fold them up. Looks like we're the opposite when it comes to house-keeping too.

"Yeah," Prim says sheepishly, avoiding my gaze and putting the leggings back in my drawer, then pulling out some jeans and throwing them at me, "Wear these."

"Does he like you?" I ask as I fall onto the bed, my right foot stuck in what is possibly the left leg of the jeans.

Prim snorts, "Never. And uh Kat, that's the wrong leg."

"I knew that," I say in mock irritation, and we both laugh. Oh, this is how it's supposed to be. To hell with being antagonistic, I love my sister. I love the feeling of being happy. I love the feeling of no more fights. Heck, I even love my mum right now.

Well, love might be pushing it a little far. More… fond nostalgia. Let's leave it at that. At least I can call our messed up relationship fond.

Before I can press Prim on her crush any further there is a knock on the door, and with a cry of, "Shivers, it's Mrs Mellark!" Prim barrels down the stairs and leaves me stumbling down after her with my jeans halfway up my thighs.

"Good morning Mrs Mellark," I hear Prim say cheerfully, and Mrs Mellark replies with a mundane, "Morning," as she always does. The morning is never good in her world. It's just the morning. Though most days, especially recently, it's been the same with me.

When my pants are finally on, I join my sister at the door, greeting Mrs Mellark cordially, but a lot less nicely than Prim had done, and Mrs Mellark replies to me with her usual, "Morning," but with even less emotion than she had used on Prim. Mrs Mellark and I have never seen eye to eye. Our first meeting went something like this.

"Get out of our rubbish bins you rotten little peasant child!"

That pretty much sums up our relationship. I'm sure hospitalising her son did nothing to improve my image in her eyes, even if it was his idea.

And so you might understand why I am nervous to get into the front seat next to her. The first part of the drive is uneventful but sufficiently awkward, the radio not enough to cover the silence.

"Do you have a job Katniss?" Mrs Mellark asks me, and I shake my head, giving Prim an alarmed glance via the rear-view mirror. Luckily Mrs Mellark doesn't catch it.

"Why do you ask Mrs Mellark?" Prim asks sweetly, and Mrs Mellark takes the red light as an opportunity to fix me with a steely death stare, "I think your older sister owes us some money."

My jaw drops, but I compose myself long enough to ask with a horrible forced politeness, "Sorry, but I don't think I understand."

"Several purchases for bathers and other clothes were made on my son's credit card. I doubt he's going to go down the street wearing Seafolly sunglasses, white, $55."

Prim looks at me with alarm as I sigh, "Your son gave those to me as a gift."

"Four pairs of bathers, a pair of sunglasses and a dress as a gift?"

"That's right Mrs Mellark," I say with falsely cheerful tones.

Suffice to say, it wasn't a very enjoyable car trip.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want me in ERBT with you?" Prim asks, and I shake my head, "It's bad enough I've got Mrs Mellark stuck being my 'supervisor over 18,' you don't stop her being horrid to me. Go see Peeta, tell him I'll be over as my ERBT's done. Go!"

So I shoo her away, and after a very uncomfortable half an hour of lying on a table with Mrs Mellark staring at me while my treatment is going on, I finally get up to visit Peeta.

I am beginning to shoot down the hall as fast as a sick kid can, when my doctor, Dr. Martin, calls after me, "Wait a sec Katniss!"

I turn around to face him, and he adjusts his glasses on his young face, "I have this for you to give your mother," he hands me a slip of paper, then adds conspiratorially, "I didn't think you'd want it with her," he jerks his head towards Mrs Mellark.

"What is it?" I ask, inspecting the envelope curiously.

"Your next PET scan appointment," he says simply, "Open it if you like, as long as you can seal it up again so that it appears plausibly unopened. Now, go visit your boyfriend."

I smile at him, Dr. Martin is one hospital staff I can actually stand, "I'll have you know he isn't my boyfriend," I give him a stern glance, and he laughs, "Well, I'm off. This ward is sufficiently boring, and my _friend_ is waiting. See you Harry Potter."

He chuckles at the nickname I've given him - though it's completely his fault for having glasses and the first name of Harry, not to mention a co-worker with red hair - and I walk down the hall, Mrs Mellark trailing behind me, who I imagine is still shooting my scathing glances.

I know my way around this hospital like I do my home, and it isn't long before I find the room number that Mrs Mellark gave me. My hand, readied to knock, freezes a few centimetres away from door C017, as fears begin to circulate through my mind.

What if Peeta hates me? What if he, like his mother, blames me for his accident? What if he demands his money back, and claims that I tricked him into buying all that stuff? What if he never talks to me again?

I knock, and it's not because I'm brave. It's because I'm cowardly enough to want this exchange to be over with quickly.

"Hey Peeta," I say quietly as I enter. Prim, who is reading him a book looks up promptly, and Peeta turns to me. In one blessed, fluid, heart-wrenching movement, he smiles at me, "Hey Katniss."

I am so happy that I could kiss him, but that would be so contrary to my talk with Dr. Martin, and so stupid in front of his mum, and so wrong in general, that I contain myself.

"You'll be okay, won't you?" I turf Prim out of the seat, and sit next to Peeta, "Did I kill you?"

Peeta laughs weakly, "I'm okay. It's not your fault anyway. It was collective stupidity."

"We're just collectively stupid people," I smile at him, and hold his hand, "What are you reading?"

Prim hands me the book, and I open it, scanning a page quickly, "This is a cancer book."

"So it is," he smiles faintly, and I look at him suspiciously, "Cancer kids aren't meant to read cancer books. They're designed for non-cancer sufferers to read so they think they understand what it's like."

"Not this one," Peeta says, and picks it up in one hand, reading in his hoarse voice, "_That's the thing about pain - it demands to be felt._ Sound familiar Kat?"

"I guess," I say softly, and there is a silence before I burst out, "Read something else. Please."

"Alright then," Peeta flicks through the pages, "Oh, this is a good one. _I'm in love with you, and I know love is just a shout in the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labour will be turned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we will ever have, and I'm in love with you._"

And he seems so sincere, and the words hit so close to home, and everything is poetic and dramatic and overwhelmingly true that I burst into noisy tears. Mrs Mellark makes a scathing noise, but I simply cry harder. And harder. And harder.

"Peeta!" I wail, and hug him far too hard to be healthy, burying my face in his no longer sterile hospital pillow. I can feel Prim's small hand patting my back, and suddenly, everything is sad but everything is okay too. The world is full of Prim and Peeta and hospital sheets, and it is warm and the sun still shines in this world, and I think in that moment that I could live like this forever, and all I will ever need is Peeta and Prim, and as they hold me, things could not be any more perfect.

Then Mrs Mellark's hand seize me roughly by the shoulders and pull me upright, "Peeta is sick!" she hisses, "And it's your fault! The least you could do is not suffocate him, and not cover him in your snot and tears."

I stare at her, then shake my head sadly, then look up at her once more. Gazing directly into her harsh blue eyes I smile wryly and something wells up inside me, and all of a sudden I'm saying, "It's a wonderful life Mrs Mellark."

* * *

**Well, that was a bit of a filler chapter, but I really loved it for whatever reason. All those quotes are from The Fault in Our Stars, arguably the best book ever written, which I obviously do not own *cries.***

**I have noticed the chapters are getting gradually longer. Are they too long? Should I split them up? Let me know!**

**For all you guys reading this who read my other stories, especially ****_Before We Die _****and ****_Survive This, _****I am really sorry about the long update times. I have been overwhelmingly busy, and on top of all of that, I have this story, which I must say, I think I'm favouring. Oh well. The next chapter of ****_Survive This _****should be up soon enough. -L**


	7. Give In To Your Feelings

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

_7. Give into your feelings. Take the leap. Do what they tell you to do._

* * *

It is well known in my family that I am unpredictable and inconsistent. High one day, low the next. I can't control it, but I should.

It takes me a long time to get up in the morning. The only thing that convinces me to get up is the fact that Peeta's coming home today. Peeta's coming home. Peeta's coming home. Get up Katniss. Peeta's coming home.

When I come downstairs at 10:30, I am dangerously close to being late for my eleven am ERBT, and completely nonchalant.

"Come on Katniss," Prim moans as I tap my foot in a patient, rhythmic way as I waited for my toast to pop up. Apparently it's a good ankle exercise. Who knew? Tap, tap, tap.

"Katniss are you listening to me?" I am startled out of my reverie by Prim's impatience. "Katniss! Mr Mellark will be here in a minute! We'll be late!"

I hate making Prim unhappy, you have to understand this. You have to understand that hearing her cry almost killed me that night. You have to understand that I put all my effort yesterday into being happy. All of it. I'm spent.

"Prim," I groan, "We'll be fine. I must have toast."

"If you wanted toast, you could have woken up a little earlier," she says irritably, and rather than use more precious energy to reply, I look away instead.

But in the end, I can't resist the temptation to snipe back, "You could have woken me up."

"I'm glad I didn't," Prim mutters with an irritated air about her, "The mood you're in."

"At least I'm not ignoring you like last week."

"I wish you would ignore me."

I pretend that doesn't hurt. Because whether it hurts or not, I don't have the mental capacity to do anything about it.

My toast pops up. "See Prim?" I say, waving the toast around like a girl deranged, "I told you it would be ready befo-"

There is a knock at the door.

"Mr Mellark's here," she says brightly, grabbing me by the wrist and dragging me down the hall with my toast still in my hands.

"Prim, I don't even like toast," I say as I realise this.

"I know you don't. I was wondering about that. Where has your brain been all morning?" Prim asks lightly, trying to get rid of the argument.

Too bad I can't seem to let it go.

"Where's it been? I'm not sure, but it's having more fun than me. I can't eat this," I retaliate.

"Well you made it, so you have to eat it. Plus, it's way better for eating in cars than bloody cereal," Prim grumbles as she opens the door.

"Hey girls," Mr Mellark is infinitely nicer than his wife, with his broad shoulders and small smile, tanned skin and Peeta's eyes. But really, I'm not in the mood for human interaction right now.

"Hi," I say flatly, and let myself into the passenger seat. Prim and Mr Mellark follow behind me, talking like normal human beings. I roll my eyes.

"Peeta's coming home today," Mr Mellark says brightly as we pull out of the driveway, "Same time you'll be coming home too. Isn't that good?"

"Fantastic," I say through gritted teeth. As pleased as I am about Peeta coming home, I swear the stuff about using more muscles to frown that to smile is complete rubbish. My face refuses to smile. Frowning is much better. I'll stick with that.

I bite into my toast. Ugh. There are four things wrong with it. It's dry, unbuttered, un-Vegemite-d and it's toast. I throw it out the window, and Mr Mellark raises his eyebrows, but does nothing more. Someone looks at me strangely.

"Oh stuff you," I mutter under my breath, loathing a stranger I have never met. Mr Mellark turns the radio on. Stupid radio hosts talk about royal scandal. I don't see what it has to do with anything. Now they're talking about Kristen Stewart. Is that all they think about? All they worry about? At the end of the day, is their prime concern going to be if she and Robert Pattinson break up? How nice to have a life that light. Concerns so petty. Unfulfilling as it may be, ignorance would be lovely.

Maybe they shouldn't tell cancer kids, or anyone with a terminal illness, that they're unwell. Let them keep living, come into hospital one day at death's door, and die peacefully, not knowing right up until the end what killed them. Not having the knowledge for all those years in advance that one day, they'll die young. I mean, I'd rather die unexpectedly than know it all my life. I'd be a car crash over cancer any day.

I look at Mr Mellark. Wouldn't it be nice if his foot slipped, a car sped, an intoxicated driver came our way? I've heard the highest mortality rates occur in the front passenger seat.

Oh toughen up Katniss. You don't know for sure you will die. It's just the suspense that's getting to you. Just like when you're watching a horror film, you have to walk out because the unknown is weighing on you like an elephant sitting on your chest.

Where the hell did that simile come from?

* * *

"I saw your mum in the ward this morning," Dr Martin says brightly, "Told me she didn't get the notice about your upcoming PET, but I told her, so no harm done."

"I forgot," I mumble, and he shrugs in a noncommittal way.

"Well, you're booked in for Friday at 2:15. If you'd like, we can reschedule your ERBT so they're back to back and not four hours apart," he looks down at a few buttons from behind the glass screen, "Just five minutes to go."

"Thank God," I exhale, "I have never known boredom like this to occur every single weekday. And did you say my PET was on a Friday? That's like… a perfect way to ruin a Friday."

Dr Martin shrugs again, apologetically this time, and the unspoken hangs between us.

_A terminal illness, a perfect way to ruin a life._

We're hardly psychic, Dr Martin and I, but I'm pretty sure we're both thinking it.

* * *

"Peeta!" I didn't think I had it in me, but it turns out I do have the energy in me somewhere, undoubtedly deep down, for a smile.

"Hello lovely Kat," he says with a smile, wheeling himself towards me.

"Oh God you're in a wheelchair? I feel horrible!" I cry, then walk behind him and take up the handles, pushing him down the hall while Mr Mellark and Prim watch on, smiling.

"Don't push me!" Peeta protests, "If you're behind me, I can't look at you."

"Don't let go of this one," the woman I assume to be Peeta's nurse whispers in my ear, and I smile sadly at her, "Thanks for the advice."

"My daughter was one of the life savers who brought you two in," she says, "Small world, clearly. Clove says she's never done anything quite so dramatic."

Our little procession halts as Mr Mellark is engaged in conversation with a doctor, and while the sick part of me wants to zone out completely, I decide to grow up and make small talk with this nurse.

"Was she the brunette?" my memory struggles to remember that day. Perhaps it's because I fainted, perhaps it's because I don't want to.

"Yes, that's her. She said she was with Cato and Fox and the time, so, a blonde boy and a red-headed girl."

I nod, "I remember them," much to my dismay, I find memories flooding back, "Your daughter, uh Clove, she's very strong. Pulled Peeta right out of the water and into the boat."

The nurse nods, "I'm not surprised. She and Cato are training every day. God knows why. You'd think they were training for the Olympics, not a patrol at Pt. Hart's."

The doctor finishes talking to Mr Mellark with a pat on the shoulder and a smile, and we continue walking, "Oh, uh, I've got to go. Bye. Tell Clove thanks."

"I will love," the nurse says warmly as we leave.

"I'm back," I say happily, putting a hand on Peeta's arm as I walk next to him, Mr Mellark behind the wheelchair, pushing Peeta along.

"Good," he says sincerely, "And I can see you. Even better."

"You're so sweet," I say fondly, then add, "You make me sound like a monster in comparison."

"I don't think you're a monster," he says warmly, and I try to register why I feel the way I do right now.

Why is my heart speeding up? Why are my palms sweating? Why is it that I want to hug Peeta as tight as I can and never let him go just bring him home with me and keep him in my room forever and ever just be with and love forever?

Oh, there is it. The 'L' word.

Katniss you did not just say you want to love Peeta forever. And for the record, you didn't just say you wanted to kidnap him either. Best friends, as close as they may be, do not have those urges.

Oh God Katniss. Calm down. You are most certainly not falling in love with Peeta Mellark. You're nostalgic. That's all. And come on. Peeta's special. You don't get best friends as good as Peeta. That's why some of your feelings might appear to be more than that. They're not really. They're just special feelings for a special best friend.

I look at Peeta and smile at him. I hold his hand. Mr Mellark announces we are going to race to the car, wheelchair against legs. Thank God Mrs Mellark isn't around.

We're about to start when I yelp, "Wait!" And then, surprising even myself, I sit on the arm of Peeta's wheelchair, with one arm curled tightly around his shoulder, (for balance only Katniss,) and look back at Mr Mellark.

"Reckon you can handle both of us?"

He grins at me like a twelve year old boy. I smile back, it's that infectious.

Prim readies herself to run.

"Ready," I say slowly, "Set," I wait tantalisingly long, drawing out the suspense before a big, "Go!"

We rocket forward, Mr Mellark truly pushing us with all his speed, Prim sprinting her heart out in earnest beside us. With Mr Mellark's strength behind us, we're beginning to pull ahead when, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

A car looms out of nowhere, and a bitter looking woman is shrieking at us in an unintelligible rant. I hear snatches of phrases like, "Dangerous," and "More harm," and "Reckless," and a recurring, "Stupid," every five seconds or so. This woman really needs to come up with more adjectives.

"I'm fine ma'am," Peeta says, but is drowned out.

Mr Mellark shakes his head in disbelief, and we keep on working. Heck yeah, we showed her. Without saying anything heard by her, may I add.

As we get into the car, me into the front and Peeta into the more spacious back, we laugh to ourselves with impersonations of the highly strung woman, and Prim protests feebly about being stressed from having loved ones in the hospital and believing the best of people if you don't know them, which just makes us laugh harder, oh Prim and her innocence.

For a day when I woke up wanting to kill the world, this has turned out pretty well.

When we arrive back at our house, and the two Mellarks are saying their goodbyes, I thank Mr Mellark, and then poke my head into the back seat to say goodbye to Peeta.

"Can you come over tomorrow?" I ask, "After ERBT of course. I need someone with me. Prim's going out and mum's working all day all this week."

"Good to hear I'm your last resort," Peeta jokes, and I laugh, "Whatever baker boy. Maybe you can teach me to cook!"

"I'd love to," he says warmly, and my heart skips a beat once more at that bloody 'L' word. Calm down Katniss. He's talking about baking. As long as you've lived you've teased Peeta about his love for baking.

_Love. Love. Love. Baking. Love. Peeta._

Oh stuff it.

"See you tomorrow Peeta," I say sweetly, and before I can stop myself, I plant a kiss on his cheek.

In my defence, Peeta doesn't seem to mind too much.

* * *

**Next chapter will be ROMANCE! I'm far too excited about this... hehehe. I'm really, really, awfully sorry about the long update time, but between the last chapter being up and this chapter being up, I have finished about three stories that I have been neglecting for this one, so hopefully updates will be more regular and I won't have other stories to stress about. That said, I am going back to school tomorrow, so we'll see how that goes. Review and let me know what you think! -L**


	8. Cut Up Cooking Chocolate

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

_7. Give into your feelings. Take the leap. Do what they tell you to do._

_8. Cut up cooking chocolate. Don't question our wisdom. Just do it. You'll know what we're talking about once you try it._

* * *

"Hey Peeta."

I run my fingers through what little hair has grown back. Les Mis or not, I can't say I like it. My mum told me never to lie. Not that I tend to listen to her much these days.

"Hi Peeta!"

I put on a little make up, far from even bordering cake face, but enough to begin erasing the sickness that seems to radiate from my face. I try to remember what I look like before I got sick. But I didn't pay attention back then. I'm not sure if I should be sad that I can't remember what healthy Katniss looks like, or if I should be glad to not have anyone to compare myself with.

"Hey Peeta! Come in!"

We're baking today, and I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard. I pick out some jeans and a tank top after much fretting. I never realised I was so materialistic.

"Hi Peeta. Need a hand with the wheelchair?"

Don't want to look like I'm trying too hard? Katniss, you're practicing greetings. You sad, sad, girl.

I hear a knock at the door and I stumble down the stairs of our empty house, remembering when I used to live for days when I got to be alone in the house. I'd bring my blanket downstairs onto the couch and turn on the TV. Then I'd find the trashiest show I could - _Toddlers and Tiaras_ or_ Keeping Up With The Kardashians_ were my personal favourites, and I'd watch for hours. But today, I have company, and for once, I'm happy about it. As a pose to say, any time before now, where I would fume for hours at the thought of my blessed alone time being disrupted.

"Hey Peeta," I say happily as I open the door. Well, that was easier than I made it out to be.

"Hey Kat," he smiles up at me from his wheelchair, and I frown as I peer over his shoulder towards the empty driveway.

"Who dropped you off?"

"Mum. She dropped me and ditched me. Has something important to do, apparently," Peeta shrugs nonchalantly, not unused to this treatment.

"And she decided I was perfectly capable of getting you up the front steps?" my frown has developed into a scowl. Great start to your date-thingy Katniss.

"I doubt she thought about it Katniss," I know Peeta isn't defending his mother. He's just stating fact, as he always does when this touchy subject comes up. Just like I state my cancer facts and statistics to keep myself sane, he sums his relationship up with his mother in black and white.

After much pushing and shoving and ow-my-leg-ing I get his wheelchair up the stairs and we go into the kitchen.

"What's with the wheelchair anyway?" I ask, "It's just your leg."

Peeta's face drops, as though a shadow is draped over his handsome features, "I… I can't handle crutches. I'm just… just not strong enough."

I should be brave for him. Just as he has a thousand times for me. Because there was a time when I was sicker than him. One big lump of cancer in my chest. They managed to get rid of it, and if I'm clear for another few months, they're sure it won't come back there again. Peeta's future isn't so bright. It's time for me to be brave for him.

But I can't.

"What?" I ask in a trembling voice, "I didn't know… I thought you were…" and before I can stop myself, I begin to cry. In the gasp of breath I catch between sobs, I manage to choke out the end of my sentence, "Healthier."

Peeta makes a sad little noise with his mouth, and his strong arms guide me so that I'm sitting on the arm of his wheelchair, just like yesterday, where we flew along the car park.

"Sorry Kat, but I'm afraid you were mistaken," he says in a small, honest voice.

"What's going to happen?" I blubber, "What's going on? I don't understand any of this! All of a sudden you're so, so sick and I didn't even know!"

"My cancer - you know how it kind of stopped growing? Well it's started again. It's growing pretty fast," he says calmly, and my blubbering promptly turns into howling. He shushes me with one finger to my lips, "The good news is, it hasn't spread. They're keeping a really close eye on it, my PET scans are almost constant. The second it moves, they'll be onto it. I'm going to keep fighting, okay Kat? I'm going to keep fighting because I love life, and because I love you."

There it is. He chooses to voice the feeling both of us have had for God knows how long while I'm crying and he's wheelchair bound and the future looks hopeless. That's when he decides to tell me he loves me.

And of course, because I'm Katniss freaking Everdeen and I can't seem to catch a break or do anything remotely right, through my mask of tears I keep crying, howling, "What?"

Peeta's firm fingers grip my chin, tilting it towards him. I must say, my howling stops promptly, though tears continue to gush down my face is a salty waterfall. "Katniss, you heard me. I love you. And it doesn't matter than you're sick, or that I'm sicker. Because right now, I love you Katniss Everdeen, and I'm not going to let you go."

I nod my head, "I… I love you too."

Our lips meant, and all of a sudden nothing matters any more. And for the first time since I last risked my life, I don't feel sick. We pull back and look at each other. I know this part is meant to be deep and meaningful, and it is, I assure you, but I can only look into his eyes for so long before letting out an irrepressible giggle. Ludicrous, I know.

"Oh God I'm sorry Peeta!" I slap a hand over my mouth, "I suck at this! I'm so non-romantic!" All of a sudden I'm laughing even harder, "I just ruined a meaningful moment, I'm so sorry Peeta!"

He begins to laugh too, a little tentatively if anything, and utterly bemused, "Katniss, you are, without a doubt, the most perfect girl ever to walk this earth. But you're a little messed up."

"Thanks boy-who-just-confessed-his-eternal-love-for-me," I say with a smirk, and this time, he really laughs.

"I didn't say anything about eternal."

"But you meant it," I persist, and he nods.

"You know me too well," he presses his lips to my collarbone, my head raised too high above his from my perch on his arm rest, "I love you for eternity."

Peeta decides to teach me how to bake chocolate chips cookies, which are apparently very hard to stuff up. He clearly doesn't know my natural ineptness at baking. Mum gave up on me very early in my cooking career, or maybe I gave up on her. To be honest, the memories are far too blurred.

But apparently by skills haven't improved in the slightest. After several failed attempts at making the mixture, which result in many eggshells dropped in and overworked flour, which will apparently make the texture bad, Peeta assigns me to chopping up the cooking chocolate, which turns out is not only easy, but fun. The sound, the feeling, but the taste most of all. Peeta has to take me away before I eat all our chocolate chips. Apparently I'm not cut out for baking. I've got no skill, and no discipline. What can I say?

While our badly textured, chocolate chip deprived cookies are in the oven, I open the cutlery drawer where I had hidden some chocolate and stuff it in my mouth.

"You devil," Peeta laughs, trying to grab it out of my hands.

I hold it over my head, "Peeta, give up. You're in a wheelchair. You have no height."

"I am all height," Peeta protested with a laugh, and I put a bit of chocolate in his mouth, then give him a kiss before he can protest.

"I win," I say with a smile.

"That you do," he kisses me back.

I swear, after my diagnosis I didn't believe I could be this happy.

Yet here I am.

* * *

Prim calls that afternoon and asks if she can sleep over at her friend's place. Mum calls and says she has to stay in for the night, that she's got a very sick patient. Somehow, because of two phone calls, Peeta Mellark sleeps in my bed that night.

We don't do anything. But we sleep, and I sleep in his arms, and I think that before that, I've never experienced proper sleep. That night puts it all into perspective for me.

When dawn comes, we get him out quickly. Home to his parents who thought he was at a friend's place. And it works so well, we have no choice but to make it a habit. Sounds impossible, ridiculous, I know, but we're not that far away, and our parents are busy people who are used to the erratic behaviour of their troubled kids.

Sometimes I'll go over to his place, sometimes he'll come to mine. And soon, the few days a week I have to sleep alone, I hardly close my eyes. I just lie there in bed, thinking of Peeta, wondering what he might be doing. Thinking about the curve of his jaw as he lays there sleeping.

Or perhaps he's awake too. Maybe his stormy blue eyes lay open as he thinks. Perhaps he thinks of me. He haunts my mind.

* * *

**I'm so terribly sorry the how long that took to get up! I have just started back at school this week, and things have been hectic. Hopefully the next one will be a little faster, but don't get your hopes up. Though I can assure you, I have drama planned. Next chapter? You meet Madge, and her PET scan is done. Oh, and to the guest who reviewed chapter 3, I'm a bit confused as I am a Catholic and I was recently at a very Catholic funeral with a eulogy... but whatever. -L**


	9. Find Someone Who Doesn't Judge

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

_7. Give into your feelings. Take the leap. Do what they tell you to do._

_8. Cut up cooking chocolate. Don't question our wisdom. Just do it. You'll know what we're talking about once you try it._

_9. Find a healthy person who doesn't treat you any differently for your disease. Then take them to Vegas and marry them._

* * *

Every year on the first week of February, we go back to our old town. Back to where we lived before Dad died, before I was diagnosed. Back to where we were poor, but happy. Back to where Mum talked and laughed with us and cooked dinner every night except for fish and chips night on Friday. I miss fish and chips night. I miss that town.

Still, it's full of bad memories. After all, it's where everything went wrong. It's where our lives collapsed. Our new place was found when everything got a little better. We were financially stable. I was under control. Sort of.

But nothing compares to the good memories and nostalgia of my old town. And so when we pack our bags up for the usual night in a motel where my mum briefly worked as a cleaning lady, her first job after her depression, I am happy. Which is always an achievement.

My EBRT is fairly early in the morning, Dr Martin knows my tradition well, and respects it, and we are on the road early enough. There are always mixed emotions around this time, but the underlying feel is one of happiness.

"Want some toast Katniss?" Mum asks me, offering the plate to me and taking the steering wheel with one hand.

"I don't like toast," I say decisively.

"She doesn't like toast," Prim confirms from the backseat. Mum laughs, bemused but shrugging it off, "If you say so girls." I look out the window as Prim laughs with her. I'll never connect. I assure you, I've given up on my mother and I.

"What are we going to do first?" Prim asks. She always gets overly excited for these little trips, she goes into full tourist mode. In her own town. Don't even ask.

"We'll probably go visit the Hawthornes," Mum says as she turns the indicator on, and I gulp.

"Will Gale be at home?" I ask in a trembling voice.

"Yes," Mum says delicately, "He's got his leave this month."

I feel slightly guilty as my next thought almost bubbles to my lips. I'd rather him be in Afghanistan that facing me. It's probably safer.

"Oh," is all I say. This should be interesting.

"And then of course we might go into the woods. Gather some dandelions, have them for lunch. We might see the Undersees," Mum shrugs, "Sound good girls?"

"Yes," says Prim happily.

"There won't be enough dandelions for a dandelion salad," I say bluntly, and Mum, who is used to my uh… realistic thinking, laughs it off.

"Oh lighten up darling," she says lightly, "Let's just pretend nothing's wrong for a little while. But you're right about the dandelions… always the logical one. I wonder if Greasy Sae's got any…" as she drifts into thought, I bite back all my retaliations to what she has just said. There's a lot I can argue with about the 'let's just pretend nothing's wrong' line. But I don't, because I guess that maybe, I'm a semi-decent person. It depends which way you look at me.

"Greasy Sae would serve it with dog meat," I point out, and my mother laughs long and hard at this. I can't help but smile a little at that. Maybe I shouldn't give up. I try to laugh with her, and find that I can't. Scratch that last.

Looks like sticking my head out the window and listening to the wind's the way to go.

* * *

When we walk into the Hawthorne's house, my body and my mind are instantly fighting each other. My body, my instincts, they relax. They're happy to be in a place that was my second home. But I'm not.

"Hello Katniss," Hazelle says warmly as I timidly step into the kitchen after my mother. She wipes her hands on her apron then gives me a hug, "It's so good to see you."

"It's nice to see you too, Mrs Hawthorne," I reply numbly, and she looks at me. I know that look. That's hurt. She knows that she's gone from Hazelle, more of a mother than mine was for a long time, to an estranged Mrs Hawthorne. Sorry, it's not your fault. I mentally apologise, because I'm too weak to do it myself. To make my lips form the words, and my vocal chords project them aloud. I'm too much of a coward.

"Hi Katty!" little Posy, six years old and as hyperactive as ever bounds into my arms and hugs me tight. Posy, I can stand to see, because she doesn't know about my sickness. Doesn't understand. Doesn't judge. If only everyone could be an innocent six year old.

"Hey Poes," I smile weakly into her radiant little face, and she claps her hands excitedly, one finger exploring the short strands of hair atop my head.

"Will your hair be long enough to braid soon?" she asks.

Oh, Posy. Oh darling, darling Posy.

"I hope so," I say as warmly and optimistically as I can. She doesn't deserve the cold shoulder I give everyone else. I am perfectly happy to hate most of humanity, and almost everyone who cares for me, but I can't bring myself to let down this little girl. It seems all that is right with the world is left in her, and left in Prim. Little bits of Rue seem to come up everywhere these days. In Prim, in Posy.

"Well that just have to stop giving you that icky medicine, and then it will be back," Posy says happily, and I nod.

"You're clever Posy, remembering about my medicine," I say in what I hope is a positive tone, "They've stopped for now, which is good. Hopefully I won't have to take any more."

"It sounds gross," Posy says expressively, making a gagging face with her tongue lolling out. I can't help but laugh at that.

"You're right Poes, it is gross," I mimic her facial expression, "Just like this." I don't tell her that chemotherapy isn't something you can drink. She hates needles.

She sits down with her back to me, and I have known her long enough to know what that means. Before she even had any, Posy has been obsessed with hair. I begin an elaborate braid, and I can hear her gasps of pleasure as she feels my fingers begin to separate the strands of her hair into sections, eager in anticipation of the finished product..

Rory and Vick come and go, Rory not saying anything to me except an awkward hello. Of all the people who have heard of my disease, Rory has taken it horribly. Possibly the worst.

"It's not contagious, you know," I tell him, not looking up from Posy's tiny head.

He just walks out hurriedly, and then I hear his footsteps stop. "Sorry!" comes a call from the hallway, before the footsteps start again.

"Ow! You're hurting me!" Posy whines, and I am surprised to find my grip on her hair so firm in my otherwise unapparent agitation, and I slacken them immediately. Mum and Hazelle share an alarmed look.

"Sorry Poes," I say softly, continuing my braiding, "Is that better?"

"You stealing all my sister's affections?" a familiar voice asks. A voice deep and tender. A voice I have known all my life. A voice that is tired but warm.

"Gale," I say softly, dropping Posy's hear promptly. Oops. Katniss, calm the fuck down.

"Hey Catnip," he says equally softly, and as I stand up he embraces me in a warm, brotherly hug. It feels so right, so natural, that we be united like this. People always think we're siblings, and maybe, at heart, that's what we are. I mean, siblings fight a lot. So it suits Gale and I just fine.

"How are you?" he asks as I sit back down, and continue Posy's braid across her head. I look up at him. I kind of hoped we'd go a little longer than this without fighting.

"Did you really just ask me that?" I ask, trying not to be scathing for Posy's benefit.

"Did I just ask you how you were?" Gale repeats, "Yes Katniss, it would appear I did. Cancer shouldn't mean sensitive. Surely I'm still allowed to ask you how you are?"

I glare at him. He glares at me. Mum and Hazelle exit noisily, talking about finding Rory and Prim before 'they got up to something.' As if they care.

"How about you treat me just how you would if I wasn't sick?" I fire at him.

"That's exactly what I've been doing, and you're getting mad at me! I asked you how you were, and you go all psycho on me, saying I can't ask a sick girl how she is?" Gale asks loudly, and I gulp as I tie the end of Posy's elaborate braid.

"You're done sweetheart. Go find your Ma."

After Posy skips out of the room, I turn to look at Gale, "Gale, I know I said that. I know. I didn't mean be tactless. I didn't mean be mean."

His face falls, "I'm sorry Kat, I really am. I've been giving you a hard time and…"

"That's it!" I jump to my feet, pointing at him like a woman deranged, "You go around feeling sorry for me because I'm sick!"

Gale looks at me pityingly. Well damn him. I hate pity. Nothing I say makes sense, I have no substance to my argument, but I will fight regardless. He pities, and so I shall hate. Pity and anger go hand in hand for me.

"I'm going to Madge's!" I holler as I tear out of the house, hearing Gale's cries calling me back, followed by a resigned silence. I run and run and run, but every step I take, I feel weaker and weaker. My chest burns. My limbs feel as heavy as lead. I keep running, flailing a little. So I slow to a walk, and I look around what used to be my hometown, nicknamed the Seam for it's mining history. The old mines attract a few buses of tourists a week, who take samples of coal and marvel at how dangerous the mines were. There's not much special about it.

But for me, it's loaded with memories. The tree where Peeta, who at the time was just another one of those tourists, threw me the bread. The place Prim and I used to play with our dolls. The river where I almost drowned one year. The meadow where the dandelions grow. And then, just when the nostalgia is beginning to weigh too heavily on me, I see my destination. The neat, white house that belongs to Madge Undersee.

I knock on the door, and a girl with long blonde hair piled into a messy bun, porcelain skin and bright blue eyes opens it, dressed very casually in a school athletics team hoodie and bike shorts.

"Madge," I sigh in relief, and hug her tightly. And because she's Madge, and she doesn't judge me and doesn't hate me and doesn't care that I'm a bitch with a sob story, she hugs me back, "I missed you," I breath.

"I missed you too Katniss," Madge says with a small smile, "Come in."

We walk down the hallway, and I'm not surprised to see that the house is empty, and that their old walnut piano is littered with pages of music and empty coffee cups. No question as to what Madge has been doing all day.

"How's the music?" I ask, sitting myself down on her couch.

"Yeah, it's alright," Madge sweeps the mugs into her arms and dumps them into the sink, "You came from Gale's?"

"How'd you guess?" I ask sourly, and she laughs.

"You seem pissed off."

"I am," I grumble, "Freaking Gale. Wasn't as bad as last year's fight though. But almost as stupid."

"I remember that," Madge sighs, "He came over here after you left." She began an E major scale, going up and down four octaves, hands moving in synchrony up and down the ivory keys.

"What did he want?" I ask curiously, this succeeding in getting my full attention. Gale going over to Madge's? They had never gotten along. I was the feeble bridge between two great forces. They never connected. So whatever happened last year must have been a first.

"To take me to the slag heap," Madge snorts, sitting down next to me and laughing at the look on my face.

"What did you say?" I splutter, and she laughs harder.

"No of course!" she laughs some more, and soon I begin to laugh too. This is why I come to Madge's.

There is silence for a while after that. Madge washes the dishes. I sit on the couch like a truly lazy person, and sometimes I speak, but mostly I don't. We're comfortable in the silence.

I want to stay here forever.

"Hey Madge," I say thoughtfully, "Can I bring you home with me?" I prop my arms up onto the back of the couch as I look at her properly, "Can I just marry you?"

"I don't think that's legal Katniss," Madge snorts.

"Madge," I say in mock sincerity, "You could make it legal."

Madge laughs, "Better you than Gale."

* * *

When we get back home, there's a message on the answering machine from Dr. Martin. Says the results of the PET scan have come through, and that we should come talk. Uh oh, not good.

* * *

"You know how we gave that nasty chest tumour of yours a deadline for it to come back by?" Dr. Martin says grimly. I can see where this is going. "It had a few months, but it's made it back just in time. It's bigger than before Katniss."

I nod slowly. _You knew it was coming Katniss._

_Then why does it hurt so much?_

"Have you been feeler sicker recently?" Dr. Martin asks, and Mum looks from him to me.

I think of the day by the beach, and not of the chest pain, but of the feeling as we jumped off the cliff. I think of the day in the car park, and not of the breathlessness, but of the thrill as we raced across. I think of the days, the nights Peeta spent at my place, and not of how exhausted we were, almost constantly too, but of the sheer love.

"I don't know Dr. Martin," I say thoughtfully, "I've been feeling okay recently. More… alive."

And then I'm crying, even though it's against my personal philosophy, even though I told myself to be strong, even though I was expecting it all.

Because I like being alive.

* * *

**I am so, terribly sorry about the long space between updates, but to be honest, I think that's how it will be from now on. I began this story in the holidays, and I had tons of time, but now... not so much. Lots of homework and a heatwave, which has left me bloody exhausted. I really thought summer was over. Ugh.**

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter, because it took me forever to write. I had so many ideas, and so many ideas why some of them wouldn't work. There was a long selection process. And then it was a matter of how to write it. Too much thinking for an over-worked, over-heated person. I'm only two weeks into school, and it's killing me already. Not that you care much about my personal life.**

**Drop me a review, and let me know how this is going. I didn't get much response from the last chapter, and I'm starting to doubt the story again. Is there something that isn't working? It doesn't quite feel right to me. **

**I'll get the next chapter up as soon as possible. Thanks for reading! -L**


	10. It Could Be Worse

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

_7. Give into your feelings. Take the leap. Do what they tell you to do._

_8. Cut up cooking chocolate. Don't question our wisdom. Just do it. You'll know what we're talking about once you try it._

_9. Find a healthy person who doesn't treat you any differently for your disease. Then take them to Vegas and marry them._

_10. Think of ways it could be worse. All the ways. I promise you, they exist._

* * *

Tomorrow, my hair comes off again. I shall be Fantine no more. Tomorrow, my chemotherapy starts again. Just when I thought that maybe, I might be done.

I spend the afternoon in the garden, watching the sun slowly begin to set, and the flowers close with it. I lie down and immerse myself in the grass, running my fingers through the short locks I have come to love._ Oh stop sulking Katniss. It's just your hair._

Summer's leaving, and it seems to have taken all my happiness with it. Tomorrow will be twenty four degrees. That's got to be the lowest in a few months. I don't want the heat to go. With the heat, everyone is lethargic, and it makes me feel less sick my comparison. When the cooler temperatures arrive, and the world wakes up from its heat-induced slumber, I will be left behind.

"Hello Katniss," Peeta surprises me as he enters the garden, but I don't jump. I remain where I am, lying on my back in the grass, and let him come to me, let him run his fingers up my arm, caress my face. I close my eyes and focus solely on the fact that his fingers rest on my cheek, warm and alive. I open my eyes.

"You look horrible!" I say, looking up at him.

"I'm back on chemo, they just let me out. Hair's not going to be hanging around much longer," he says grimly, instinctively running his hand across his blonde head.

"Mine starts back up tomorrow," I sigh, "We'll match."

He lies down next to me, using his hand to shield the dying light of the sun from his eyes, "We'll be the best looking bald couple around."

"You reckon?" I ask him, lifting my head a little and then lying back down as a wave of nausea and light-headedness hits me.

"Of course," he says, and I can hear the mischievous smirk in his voice, "But better than that, we'll be the happiest."

"Really?" this definitely takes me off guard.

"Well, you're not really pulling your weight, but I think we can do it," the smirk is almost tangible now, "You'll get there."

"I don't know…" I say, and leave the question hanging there. Can I find it in me to be happy?

"I'll make you happy," Peeta says confidently.

"How?" I ask miserably, "Everything is horrible."

"It could be worse," he says simply, and turns his head away from the ever-changing sky to look into my eyes, and I stare readily back. I know what question they ask, mournful and as grey as the storm clouds. Could it? Grey as one of those pebbles down by the creek behind Peeta's house. Peeta once told me my eyes were the colour of elephants. What a nutcase.

"I could have pancreatic cancer," he offers, and I nod, begrudging him this fact. No one wants pancreatic, one of the highest mortality rates.

"I could have a brain tumour," I supply, "A malignant brain tumour," I add, "Then I'd be even bitchier than usual. My personality would change. And I'd probably die."

"I'd stick with you," he says sweetly, and I smile the smallest of smiles, before making his own contribution, "It could be like in _The Fault in Our Stars_, and both my eyes were removed. Then I wouldn't be able to look at you."

"I'm not much to look at," I insist, and he shakes his head.

"I could look at you forever Katniss Everdeen, and I would never get tired of it," he says, looking up at me, "You are as radiant as the sun."

I look up at the fading light of the sun, but find I have to shield my eyes against the strength of its orange glow, powerful enough to light up the whole sky in an array of pink and oranges and silvery blues.

"The sun is dying Peeta," I say sadly. I know she'll slip beneath the horizon soon. Darkness will engulf us, and when she returns, the doctors will take me, and they will inject me with poison. In order to save my life, part of me has to die.

He too, looks at the sun, shielding his eyes with an unnaturally pale forearm, "But when she's dying, she gives out the most light."

They're beautiful words, the ones that escape his lips, made more beautiful by the sincerity behind them. By the look in his eyes, and the tears welling behind them. By the heart-wrenching circumstance. Because everything is so unfair.

"I don't want to die."

The words are simple and true. Peeta knows this, and he looks at me with the gentlest pity in his blue eyes. For once in my life, pity doesn't upset me anymore.

"We're both pretty sick Kat," Peeta says fairly, giving my hand a squeeze, "But I don't think you're in danger yet. The fire in you… the light… it's not blinding yet. It's just smouldering gently, somewhere behind your eyes," his gentle fingertips are placed on my eyelids, and guides them closed. The world glows bright behind closed lids.

"You're a girl on fire Katniss, you burn bright and you burn hot. You look dangerous, and people are intimidated by a girl who can look so beautiful wreathed in flames, but really," his lips meet mine, "The only person the fire will hurt is you. People get scared for their girl on fire, and they're scared that one day she'll burn too bright and burn to fierce, and burn out. But I wouldn't worry if I were you Kat. I don't think you'll burn yourself out any time soon."

* * *

"How's it going in?" I ask sullenly as Dr. Martin greets me with less than his usual smile on his face. You can take chemo in a variety of ways. Intravenous, orally, injected into the cavity which is harbouring the cancer, rubbed onto the skin, anything really.

"Mixture," Dr. Martin says, "IV and into your chest cavity directly too, but that'll be later on. We'll stick to intravenous today."

I put on a sulky face, and he shrugs, "Not much we can do about it Katniss. Now," he looks down at his notes, "Rather than your regular IV, you'll be having a CVC. You've had one of those before?"

"No," I say, shaking my head urgently as panic rises in my throat. I can feel those flames rising behind my eyes.

I hear Peeta's voice in my head, _"People get scared for their girl on fire, and they're scared that one day she'll burn too bright and burn too fierce, and burn out."_

I take a deep breath. I'm not letting the cancer's flame engulf me any time soon, and I'm certainly not going to burn myself out in a violent panic attack. "What does CVC stand for?"

"Central Venous Catheter," Dr. Martin replies instinctively, then looks closer at me, seemingly concerned by my near panic attack, "Are you sure you're alright Katniss?"

"If I was alright I wouldn't be having chemotherapy now, would I? Wouldn't be needing a bloody CVC," I retort, without any real fire. I close my eyes and breathe out deeply, "What does a CVC involve?"

"A catheter is going to be placed into a large vein. The vein chosen varies, but in your case we'll be choosing an axillary vein in your chest," he's back in medical nerd mode, and notices my subtle smirk, "On the upside, CVCs don't hurt at all," I can tell he's trying to win me over with this bloody CVC thing, and I manage him a smile.

"Did Peeta have a CVC?" I ask as a nurse prepares the site of insertion. I look at her warily and she smiles at me, and I feel as though I recognise her.

"I'm not Peeta's doctor," Dr Martin points out, "Aschia, did he have a CVC?"

I realise he's talking to the nurse, who shakes her head, "Normal IV for Peeta," she tells him, and then turns to me, "You remember me?"

"Kind of," I say honestly, because I am smart enough to know that lying to the people who are in charge of your anaesthetic is never a good idea.

"I'm Peeta's nurse," she says, "I talked to you when he was discharged. My daughter was Clove? The life guard?"

"Oh…" I say slowly, "Yeah, I remember you. We had a riveting conversation."

She laughs, "Yes, absolutely riveting. Now, I've given you some local anaesthetic, I'm going to give you a mini ultrasound now, just to make sure we've got the right vein. You okay with that?"

"What if I wasn't?" I ask brazenly, and this makes her smile.

"I'd strap you down and make you take your poison through the right vein, because in the long run, it'll help you out," she says with a shrug, "Chemo's not fun, but you've have good results in the past, you know."

"Well they're obviously not that good, or I wouldn't be back here," I say, a little more disgruntled and a lot less lighthearted than I was a few moments ago, as the immediacy of my treatment becomes apparent. I really, really do not want this chemo.

"Hopefully you'll be even better now," she doesn't fail in her bright demeanour, which is beginning to annoy me rather than make me happy, "And there's the vein! It's catheter time."

"Woohoo," I say sullenly, and she shrugs.

The CVC goes in. Well, they were telling the truth. It doesn't hurt at all. There's another way things could be worse. I could have a regular IV. Still, it's poison they're coursing through me, and I'm not happy about it.

"Not much we can do about it Katniss," she says, and I close my eyes, but not before sharing a meaningful glance with Dr Martin.

"I've been told."

* * *

Two hours later, they're done injecting poisons into my bloodstream, and the side effects have begun.

"Do you want some dry biscuits?" Dr Martin offers me, visiting on his ward round, "Much better to be eating lightly than-"

I vomit rather violently, and a bunch of nurses rush towards me. Suddenly, I'm interesting.

"You know what?" Dr Martin says with a slight cock of his head, "I think we'll forget the biscuits. I'll make sure someone grabs you some hydration jellies. You like grape, orange or strawberry?"

"I bet they don't taste like any of those things," I manage to choke out between retches, "But you'd better get me the orange."

True to Dr Martin's word, a nurse comes up to me a few minutes later with a whole stack of clear, plastic sachets with a jelly in it what is at least a nice shade of orange. It reminds me of lifejackets and lollipops and my favourite water slide. Most importantly, it looks much too fake to look anything like the sun, like the fire Peeta says lurks behind my eyes, threatening to engulf me.

Ways things could be worse: these jellies could be the sun when she's dying.

After the nausea comes diarrhoea, which has me feeling like a toddler again, and has me snapping at all the nurses who have to clean up after me, my stomach and intestinal tract seemingly teaming up on me in order to reduce my self confidence. Fuck you gastrointestinal tract.

I'm a good girl. When my stomach runs out of things to hurl upwards and out of my mouth I start on the jellies, tearing the corner and sucking the contents out obediently, and finding that they are a lot nicer than I expected them to be. I slurp down about half the pile before I realise that's a bad idea and start vomiting again. _Come on Katniss, you've done this before. You know the procedure. Eat often, and eat small portions!_ I don't think my half a litre's worth of jellies really counts as a small portion.

"That's a lot of jellies you've eaten there," Dr Martin observes during his next ward round. I think I'm finally done vomiting, but I'm exhausted, and my skin is already becoming itchy and dry. "You've got half the side-effects possible," he observes with a concerned expression on his face. I smile grimly at him.

"That's me. Am I staying overnight?" the question occurs to me suddenly. Where's mum? Where's Prim? Have they forgotten me? Abandoned me in a ward where people inject poison into my veins and rush around with buckets and plastic sheets to pick up the pieces? This is why I hate hospital.

"About that," Dr Martin looks around surreptitiously, then sees he's not needed anywhere and sits down, "Your mum just contacted me. Mad, mad night in her ward. Some woman went into cardiac arrest after having a baby, someone else's got an infected IV site and blood oxygen levels have plummeted, thirty patients on ventilators… I don't know the details, but she's very busy. Your sister… someone got onto her, and she'll be catching the train into the hospital. You'll be staying the night, and she'll stay with you. Then tomorrow, we'll give you your second dose of chemo."

"Prim's coming?" I perk up a little at that thought, then process the rest of what Dr Martin has said, "Will she be okay getting here on her own? It's getting dark, and no-one's been there to make her dinner… what if someone kidnaps her? What if-"

Dr Martin cuts me off, "Prim'll be fine. She's got my number, and we all know Harry Potter trumps rapists every day."

Way it could be worse: a doctor who didn't give a shit about my sister's safety.

I'm too tired to laugh, my shrill rant having taken a lot out of me, but I give him a smile before burying my face in my pillow. "My skin is itchy," I moan, my voice muffled in the pillow.

"I'll have a nurse get you some cream," Dr Martin assures me, and there is silence. "Do I get a goodbye?" he asks, and I can hear him preparing to move onto his next patient.

"Do you expect one from every patient you pass on your ward round?" I ask.

"Only the healthy ones," he says, and even though my eyes are in the pillow, I can hear a smile.

"Funny joke doc," I reply, and I lay there, very still, as I hear his footsteps walk away. I'm not sure what happens first, whether he walks far off enough so that I can't hear him anymore, or I fall asleep.

* * *

When I wake up, I feel like shit. No difference. Someone has turned me over in my sleep, my face is no longer buried in the safe haven that is my pillow. I stare up at the roof, then look around. Where's Prim?

"Prim," I choke out, attempting to get out of the bed. I look at the drip in my hand, and consider pulling out, but decide I need the fluids and the stabilisation the drip's pole gives me. I grab it tightly in my right hand, and start the walk, the wheels creaking as I do so.

"Prim!" I cry, the hysteria in me rising, "Prim!"

Nurses rush as me, and hustle me back into bed, fretting over the condition of my drip and more importantly, my mental health.

"Your sister's here sweetie," one of them assured me, "She's fine."

"Then why isn't she here?" I scream through tears, "Prim! Prim, where are you!"

"Honey, your sister's fine she just we-"

"Prim!" I scream long and loud, collapsing into a heap on the floor. _Oh God Katniss, stop it. Breathe in. Breathe out. Prim. Prim! PRIM!_ "I want to see my sister," I sob grossly, a mixture of tears and snot. I feel the bile rising in my throat.

"Katniss?" a small voice asks, and I look up, pushing nurses away with my arms to clear a view.

"Prim," I breathe, and I am so ashamed, so embarrassed to be sitting here choking in tears and mucus for no good reason. Because of a stupid panic attack. Nothing was wrong, and I made it wrong. God, I'm so emotionally unstable right now. My sister's thirteen and I'm almost seventeen, but right now, she's so much emotionally older than me.

"Come on Katniss, back to bed," she takes me by the hand, and a nurse takes me by the other and they lead me into my bed. I slip between the plastic sheets and drink a jelly obediently. Prim holds my hand the entire time, a constant presence in a world of tumultuous changes. I am so lucky to have her.

"Prim," I say quietly. It's not yet nine o'clock, and I'm already fighting to keep my lids open, "Prim, I promise you, I'm more than this."

She looks at me with a confused smile, "What do you mean Katniss?"

"I've been reduced to a shadow of myself here, on this poison. I've turned five again. And I get sleepy at night and have panic attacks when I can't see my sister and vomit over myself and have uncontrollable diarrhoea. And sometimes, even when my chemo's over I don't act my best. But I promise you Prim, there's more to me than the sad little creature I become sometimes. Peeta… he says I'm a girl on fire. Says it smoulders, just behind my eyes," I re-enact what Peeta's fingers had done to me the previous day, shutting my eyelids with two nimble fingers. I'm not surprised to realise that I can't open them, "And I promise to you Prim, when I get out of here, I'll show you. I'll find the Katniss you want to see…"

Way it could be worse: no Prim.

And before she can say or do anything, I'm asleep.

* * *

**Long chapter! I am so sorry about the long update time, I have had a HORRIBLE fortnight. I've been sick, had FIVE assignments, and a friendship go completely out the window. Ugh. But it's March now, my friend and I are over, I gave in three assignments today, and I've got the long weekend coming up. Keep your fingers crossed for an update sometime on Monday, but that might be a little too much to promise. Still, I'll try.**

**I know this sounds needy but please, if you're ever going to review, review THIS chapter. I really want to know how I'm going, I haven't gotten that much reception of late, and I need to know if I'm on track. I had a moment writing this chapter where I thought about giving up on this whole story, or at least putting it on hold. Then I felt horrible, and exited my prac report to do this. So feel loved.**

**Thanks to all who haven't given up on this story! And sorry for the long AN :) -L**


	11. Prove a Point

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

_7. Give into your feelings. Take the leap. Do what they tell you to do._

_8. Cut up cooking chocolate. Don't question our wisdom. Just do it. You'll know what we're talking about once you try it._

_9. Find a healthy person who doesn't treat you any differently for your disease. Then take them to Vegas and marry them._

_10. Think of ways it could be worse. All the ways. I promise you, they exist._

_11. Prove a point. There is a beautiful satisfaction which sprouts only from the words, 'I told you so.'_

* * *

After a few weeks of chemotherapy I'm bald and the accompanying radiation treatment has left my skin scarred. I don't leave the hospital at all between treatments, and my side-effects are worse than ever.

"Hey Katniss," Dr Martin comes in early on Saturday morning, and for some infernal reason, decides I'm in the mood for a conversation.

"Go away," I moan, but he shakes his head.

"I've got your mum here," he says seriously, "We need a little family meeting."

"Where's Prim then?" I snap, "Where's dad?"

I watch my mother go white, and as the blood drains from her face, I feel the malice drain out of me. Weird. I thought cancer made me bitchier, not nicer. I give my mum an apologetic smile. She returns it.

"I know where Dad is," I mutter quickly, getting rid of the words as fast as possible, "Sorry for asking. But uh, where is Prim?"

"Taken the train all the way to our old town. Doing community service for school, helping out with the hotel I used to work at. I think Rory's there with her," Mum flashes me a teasing smile, "I wonder what they'll get up to."

I try to laugh, but end up coughing up a whole lot of mucus instead, and almost choking on whatever remains in my throat.

"Oh, sorry darling. Here," Mum wipes the phlegm away from my face, her nursing instincts kicking in. Or is it? Is she finally being my mother, not my nurse? Not my jailer? And am I finally letting her? I hold onto her hand as Dr Martin sits down, clearing his throat.

"Mrs Everdeen, Katniss," he addresses us individually, but talks to my mother alone, "I think that your daughter has reacted very badly to this round of chemotherapy. As a result, the functionality of her immune system has gone right down, and I believe it will continue to drop. Within the next few hours, I think that Katniss will be completely unprotected, which, as you would know as a nurse, means she'll have to be completely isolated in order to prevent germs getting to her. Because if they do, Katniss will be defenceless."

"Oh, hun," Mum sighs, letting go of my hand, "I won't be able to touch you for a few days. We're going to move you-" she looks to Dr Martin for confirmation of this statement, and he gives a nod, "To somewhere where we'll be able to see you from behind some glass. It'll be until your immune system's back up and running."

I groan.

"It does mean your chemo stops for a little while," Dr Martin offers, and I smile a little.

My mum gives him the thumbs up, "Well a smile's a start."

* * *

True to Dr Martin's rather depressing prediction, it's not long before I am declared to be officially immunodeficient. Let's celebrate, eh? Everything is confiscated, my iPod included, and I hardly have the energy to sing to myself. So my head is as silent as it gets. No thoughts circle my brain. My hospital gown is taken from me, and replaced with a 'very special' one, which has that smell only things in a hospital have: clean and germ-free and probably soaked in some sort of antiseptic acid. Yum, my favourite. The sheets smell that way too. My room is white and perfectly clean, just like some people wish the world was. I'm locked up in my germ-free jail, a long window on one of my walls is the source of entertainment, watching nurses and doctors rush back and forth. Sometimes, my mother and Prim wave at me through the glass. Dr Martin comes in every few hours, and often gives me some sort of injection, which I hate, and is actual human interaction, which I like. I mean, he has to wear this weird mask thingy over his mouth like Chinese people on the news in a bird flu epidemic.

"I feel unloved," I tell him sullenly when he comes in at the insistence of a nurse, who told him that my skin wasn't improving, even with the vast array of creams they lathered onto me with sterilised and gloved hands.

"I don't think there's much we can do about your skin Katniss," he says, after close examination, "And what do you mean, you feel unloved? Your mum and Prim have been coming over whenever they can. Although," he looks around my miniscule prison of cleanliness, "This place is kind of lonely." His voice is muffled through the mask, and he turns his face away from me to avoid breathing on me, but there is no mistaking his words.

"It is," I answer typically, and he shrugs.

"Not much we can do about that," he says evenly just as he did that last time.

"Is that becoming your catch phrase Dr Martin?" I ask weakly, and he turns to me. I can't see his mouth, but his eyes are smiling.

"Maybe."

"Well it shouldn't be," I say heavily, "I mean, it's pretty grim."

"What do you think it should be?" he asks, pausing on his way to the door.

"Expelliarmus," I mumble, and I hear him laugh.

"You're gold Katniss. I'll miss treating you," there is a silence between us, "When you're cured. I'll miss treating you when you're all NEC and free."

"You don't know that," I point out, "I might die. You can't win every fight Dr Martin."

"I'm Harry freaking Potter, I'd better," he says, and his eyes are smiling again.

"There are no hands I'd rather be in," I assure him, "But seriously. If I'm dying, please God don't say to me, 'Not much we can do about that.'"

His eyes turn sad, "Don't worry Katniss. I won't."

And then, I'm alone again.

* * *

One day, Mum brings news through the glass. Peeta's coming. Peeta's coming. Peeta will visit you. Well, that's great and everything, but what's he going to do? Wave at me through the glass? I'm a zoo specimen, a rare creature, watched closely by scientists while they try to rehabilitate me, release me back into the wild. I am sick of living in captivity.

When Peeta does come, he waves at me. Mouths, "Hi."

I am weak, but I've got enough in me to smile at him.

He raises his hands up to the window so that I can see them, and waves a bouquet of flowers at me. I can't help but laugh in sheer delight. _Oh Peeta, you perfect human being._ I watch Peeta walk out of my line of vision, and I'm momentarily confused. Then I hear my door begin to rattle. He's not. The door rattles once more. He's trying to get in.

_Oh Peeta, you perfect human being._

I hear a nurse's sharp voice, "You can't go in there."

"But I have to give these to someone," Peeta insists, sounding disoriented as he does so. I don't think he's thinking all that clearly at the moment.

"You know she's immunodeficient, right?" the nurse asks in exasperation, and I can picture Peeta right now, as he nods his head vehemently, a blank look on his face. _Oh, Peeta._

"Yeah, yeah I know that, but I think she needs these," Peeta's voice rises, "They'll help her get through it, I know they will! She needs some hope, she's been locked up in a jail for days, she needs a friend and she needs some flowers-"

The nurse sighs, "Okay mate, don't worry. I'll get her your flowers. But I'm going to tell you now, you're not going to like this."

However, Peeta is quiet and obedient while the nurse does whatever she needs to do to the flowers. If she's spraying them with disinfectant I swear to God…

"Can I go in and give them to her now?" Peeta sounds young, hopeful, sweet. Naïve. _Peeta, she'd die before letting you in here._

"'Fraid not hun, how about you go stand by the window while I give them to her," the nurse says firmly, and Peeta appears in front of the window, looking to his right, presumably at the nurse. His face is contorted with rage.

"How come you can go in there and I can't?" I hear him yell, and tiredly cover my ears, "Why do you hate me so much?"

Once again, the nurse sighs, "Because I'm all ready and sanitised, I was on my way into her room to begin with. I won't transmit any germs to her that could potentially kill her. You could. Now excuse me, I'm going to go give her your flowers. And a shot."

I swear under my breath. _Really?_

Peeta says something back. I can't read his lips, nor hear his voice, which at least means he's stopped shouting. He pauses, as though waiting for the reply, and once he gets it I watch him shrug, and the door clicks open with the jangle of keys, and the nurse walks in, a hypodermic needle in one hand, and Peeta's bouquet of yellow flowers in the other. In a sealed plastic bag. My flowers are in a plastic bag.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," the nurse snorts, emptying the contents of her arms on a bench, "At least I didn't spray them with anything." Bloody mind reader. "Come on, you'd rather have flowers in a bag than a 40° fever, wouldn't you?"

_Of course I'd prefer my flowers in a bag, you stupid woman._ Not that I was about to admit it. "Do you reckon I could break forty?"

"Most people who break forty die Katniss," the nurse tells me, "But each to his… or, her, own. Now, what first, needle or flowers?"

"It's not every day I'm privileged with such a choice," I say, sarcasm apparent even in my fatigue, "Let's go needle."

And so while she injects me with God knows what and I make sure to look at Peeta, not the needle. He smiles at me, and I pull what I hope are humorous faces, not images of extreme pain. He rolls his eyes at me. After the needle's done, she hands me the flowers. They're fragile, and I take care not to push the plastic up against them. The colour, the colour of pale sunshine.

_Oh Peeta, you perfect human being._

Because he has given me flowers, not the colour of the sun giving off her last light, but the pale, calm yellow, of a sunrise, a lifetime, just beginning.

* * *

In the end, my immune system begins to function again, and they decide I can have a merciful week's break before my next round of chemo. Thank God. The first day I spend at home, I sleep. A lot. I lie down in my ever-messy bedroom, and I inhale the scent of home, and of germs, and BO and deodorant and the musky smell clothes get when left to sit on your floor. I don't know why anyone would ever want a clean bedroom. In my cocoon of blankets, with an old bra dangling somewhere near my ear, and one sock on my foot, but nothing on the other, I'm finally home.

* * *

On the second day, I get out of bed. I make cereal, because hey, toast sucks. At least I have the mental capacity to remember which foods I like, unlike earlier. One step at a time, I'm getting better. Though admittedly, all my hard work will be unravelled in six day's time, when my poison treatment, (I much prefer that term to chemotherapy,) begins again. Sometimes, I don't know why I bother.

* * *

On the third day, Prim and I watch a whole season of_ Keeping Up With The Kardashians: Kourtney and Kim Take New York_. Because we are that awesome. We wear trackies and consume nothing but smoothies, which we make ourselves with the extensive store of fruit and yogurt we have in the fridge.

"We are so good at his," I say, taking a sip of Prim's watermelon, mango, strawberry and ice drink, "We should start a shop."

"Shoosh!" she hisses, "Kim's having a wardrobe malfunction!"

And we laugh so hard we forget how to breathe.

* * *

On the fourth day, Peeta comes over. He says that he got sick of bread, which I find hard to believe, (Peeta has a very special and unquestionable relationship with bread,) and has come to spend time with me. So we go to the park to kick the footy, which I suck at, with my spindly legs and fatigue affected vision, and Peeta is wonderful at, using his body weight to push Prim out of the way with a shrug of his shoulders, reaching up long arms to effortlessly snatch the ball out of the air. Still, despite his appearance of health, both of us are lying down in the grass after half an hour, while Prim plays with someone else's dog, and before I'm aware I'm even tired, I'm asleep. The last thing I hear being said, is in Prim's voice, as she bends over me, "Oh Kat. You're still pretty sick, aren't you?"

* * *

On the fifth day, I wake up, get out of bed, and go to get dressed in my trackies, which have taken up residence on the floor next to my bed, but then stop. I change into my skinny jeans and heeled ankle boots, throwing on a black top that Prim bought me for my birthday, insisting I looked pretty in it. I guess I do, sort of. I look at it closely. From the front it is fairly non-descript. High, straight neckline, sleeveless and stopping just above the waistband of my jeans, plain, except for a pocket in floral print. I turn around and look at the back, completely made of the same floral fabric that made up the pocket. I braid my hair to the side. I guess that maybe, I look pretty today.

I call Peeta, he's free. I count up my money, consider my debit card. Then, over a bowl of cereal on the kitchen table, I invite Prim to come shopping with Peeta and I.

Today, I'm going to prove to her that I'm not sick.

* * *

Our first stop is at Cotton On, which Prim likes, because it's affordable, and I don't like, because once an employee asked me so many personal questions I ran out. Maniacs like that shouldn't be employed. Still, Prim insists that most of their employees are not the kind of people who will bombard me with questions about my illness, and points out that while thin, my hair is still there, in stark contrast to last time, when the scarf I wore on my head did little to disguise the fact that I was bald. And because I have a point to prove, we go in.

I buy Prim some jeans that are so cheap I am deeply suspicious of them, and a jumper. Peeta buys some shorts because I make him, and I get a scarf for five bucks with Prim's purchase. Well, if it's anything, it's cheap. And this shop assistant, while perky, did not ask me one personal question. Added bonus, eh?

Peeta chooses our next store, and I'm surprised by his choice: we go to the pet store. Apparently we're too young to buy a dog unaccompanied, and that would be helping the horrible puppy trade where they're all kept in cages anyway, so Peeta, Prim and I pick a fish each. Mine is gold, she glows softly, and swims around lashing her tail at Peeta's fish, who is black with bobbly eyes and makes me laugh. Prim's is predictably the prettiest in the shop, colourful and much nicer to Peeta's fish than mine, and reminds me of the rainbow fish in those books we were read in primary school. That seems like an age ago. Peeta names his Bobbles, Prim's is Sage, ("We have to keep the tradition of being named after plants alive, you see Katniss?") and mine? I name it Fish. Practical and straight to the point. Plus, if I were to go all philosophical with names, I'd be standing by that fish tank for hours. We arrange to pick them up at the end of the day, and leave.

I choose the movies, for my shop, which Peeta says in cheating, but stops when I buy us gold class tickets to Skyfall. And for the next few hours we watch James Bond run around being his usual womanising self, and shooting foreigners and getting shot by foreigners and generally getting involved in his usual action-packed drama. When the villain is captured and is being interrogated, Peeta completely ruins the serious mood by whispering a line from Thrift Shop in my ear, "Oh, he got the velcros!" We laugh so hard someone tells us to shut up, and then we laugh even more while people complain about kids these days. Peeta drinks about half a litre of soft drink, and Prim drives us to the brink of madness by spraying us with a 'sour spray' which turns out to be very, very sticky. How anyone came up with that, I will never know. James Bond defeats the villain in the end, but I'm too busy having foot wars with Prim and Peeta to pay much attention.

It's the evening now, and the shopping centre is closing. Peeta insists that he will buy us dinner. We go to a small Italian place, where people with authentic accents serve you crusty garlic bread in red checked table-cloths and a vase of flowers sits on the table.

"I'm lucky to have the two most beautiful girls in town at dinner with me tonight," Peeta says with a smile as the waiter leaves with our order.

"That is so cheesy," I roll my eyes at him through a mouth of garlic bread, "Not to mention creepy. My sister's thirteen you know."

"I'm pretty sure you're supposed to say cheesy things like that at some point in life," Peeta says fairly, "And I'd like to get it out of the way now. Plus, Prim, you don't think I'm a child molester, do you?"

Prim snorts garlic bread into her napkin, and I cover my face with my hands.

"Do we embarrass you Kat?" Peeta asks smugly, and I can't help but laugh.

"I love you both."

Prim gets mushroom risotto and Peeta and I decide to share a small pizza. Big mistake. It's practically a fight to the death for the last piece of pizza, even though I know I should let him have it, as I've had four pieces and he only three. He ends up snatching it out of my grip but cuts it in half, which makes me feel guilty, and I tell him so. And so, in typical Peeta fashion, he gives it to Prim.

"Bastard," I grin as I hug him, nestling my face in his neck.

Two scoops of ice cream later we're on the train home, and Prim's found a friend from school she decides to go and talk to. I sit on Peeta's lap, squished up against the window in a typically crammed train, and I turn to look into his eyes.

"Peeta, you're perfect, you know that?"

He smiles cockily, "Yes, I did actually."

I laugh.

"Katniss," Peeta says, "I've got some good news for you."

I open my mouth slightly, inhaling quietly.

"You know I've been on the waiting list for a kidney for a long time. I'm finally there. I'm getting a new kidney, as soon as they get rid of the rest of the cancer. They're going nuts with the chemo and radio in hope that soon, it'll only be left in my kidneys, and we can get rid of those."

"Do they think they can get rid of the rest of it?" I ask tentatively. The plan is anything but easy.

He nods, "Yes Katniss. I'm responding well. They think I'll be okay."

* * *

**PEETA! Even I got excited writing that. Sorry about the wait again, so much for getting a chapter up last Monday! Well, you can tell I'm an optimist. Drop a review, give me some ideas, feedback, hate, whatever. I'd like to say the next chapter will be up soon, but my teachers have gone all psycho-assignment mode, as per usual. Argh. -L**


	12. Think of Better Days

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

_7. Give into your feelings. Take the leap. Do what they tell you to do._

_8. Cut up cooking chocolate. Don't question our wisdom. Just do it. You'll know what we're talking about once you try it._

_9. Find a healthy person who doesn't treat you any differently for your disease. Then take them to Vegas and marry them._

_10. Think of ways it could be worse. All the ways. I promise you, they exist._

_11. Prove a point. There is a beautiful satisfaction which sprouts only from the words, 'I told you so.'_

_12. Think about better days. We've all had them - those blissful days where you haven't once wanted to die._

* * *

When I'm back in the hospital, back on chemo and back to feeling horrible, it's all too soon before I'm depressed and surly again. Dr Martin cops it, Mum cops it, and a whole bunch of unfortunate nurses cop it. Ironically, I can't snap at Peeta because he's off receiving the same torture I am, but at least he's got some hope. If this all works out for him, which they think it will, he'll have a new set of kidneys, so much better than the last, which have always been the point from which the cancer sprouts, and eventually spreads. To get rid of his old kidneys is to cut off the problem at the source. If only they had such liberty with my condition. You can hardly cut out your chest.

"Can't you give me surgery? I'm sick of this bloody poison," I whine when Dr Martin comes to check on me on his ward round, "Just get rid of the bloody thing! I'm this close to pulling out my CVC," I gesture with my fingers, holding them so close they are almost touching in typical antagonistic Katniss style. Heck yeah.

Dr Martin sighs, "Well, if you really care, we did think about it, but we thought the risk far outweighed the benefits. I mean, that tumour is right in there among your lungs and heart and a whole bunch of important things. Plus, even if we cut it out and you survived but were weakened because of it, well, if the cancer came back, which it very well could, you wouldn't cope nearly as well."

"The cancer's coming back?" I moan. As I run my fingers through what little hair I have left, a lock slips between my fingers and onto the sheets, "I hate cancer, cancer, cancer, I hate cancer, yes I do," I sing quietly, to the tune of some nursery rhyme or folk song that's name escapes me.

"Well, it might," Dr Martin concedes, "Oncology is a complex field. There are so many different kinds of cancers, so many different kinds even within specialised categories. Some cases play out, following a typical script, some of them are nightmares to try to figure out or predict. Yours is definitely the latter, which does make it difficult. But hey, at least there's hope Katniss."

"Hope?" I ask forlornly, "This isn't hope! This is not being 100% sure of your demise! I tell you what's hope," I pause and wait for his affirmation.

"Alright Katniss, you tell me," he says, not looking up from my charts, not out of disrespect, but simply because he has a lot of work to do and I'm probably wasting his time, "What is hope?"

"Hope," I state, "Is being told that this dose of chemo will be your last, and that once it's over, you'll get that donation you've been hoping for all your life and move on. You can say goodbye to spending half your waking hours in hospital, and start having friends your age instead of nurses who tolerate you more than others and calling them friends! It's finally being told you're almost done, and that all of this torture and loss and sadness was worth it, because it will actually kill that bastard cancer, not just your hair!"

"Katniss," Dr Martin says sadly, "I know that it is hard to see Peeta get out of this all so easily, and even though you are happy for him, you're sad too. You're jealous, and it's not petty jealousy, it's just a wish for life. There's nothing wrong with what you're feeling," he assures me, "But between you and me, I think you've got some hope too," he pauses, giving me time to scowl elaborately at him, "Plus, let's go back to Harry Potter here…" he looks into my eyes with a smile and I can't help but give him a grudging smile in return, "The recurring theme there is love, not hope. You've got plenty of people who love you Katniss. There's Peeta and you mum and Prim, who love you more than the world, and maybe that's what matters here," he sighs, "I unfortunately don't get paid to banter with my more philosophical patients continually, and I think we're all good here. Not much to do really. Though I will get a nurse to give you a few hydration jellies, apparently your sodium levels are high…" he looks down at his chart, "Bloody size ten font. Your skin's been better, but no nausea, right?" I nod, and he smiles, "Well that's certainly an improvement from last time. Goodbye for now Katniss, I'm off to see a patient much sicker than you. A nurse will unhook you in about half an hour, and if you're feeling okay, you can go home for the night."

"I can't do another half hour of this," I moan, and there is no smile behind my words. The small relief Dr Martin has been able to give me is temporary, and nothing he can say changes what I feel or the reality of this disease. Yes, the survivor in me is jealous of Peeta and his bright future. The human in me, the heart, the emotion, I want all of that for him and more. I just want him to be happy. But I want to be happy with him, and having such a debateable future next to his solid one hurts, and having two different sides to me, always conflicting and crossing, hurts just as much. I'm confused, exhausted, jealous, sad, nostalgic and there is poison coursing through my veins. I can only be thankful that this time my stomach isn't doing it's best to hurl it all out.

"Hydration jellies?" a nurse comes up to me only a few minutes later, and I marvel at the speed at which Dr Martin told her to come over.

I nod sullenly. Trivial offers of happiness seem flimsier now, things like food and warmth and a calm stomach so temporary, so frail. The hydration jellies are not an offer of life, but of nourishment. Nourishment is not what I need. It is a small contributing factor at this point in time to my wellbeing, insignificant and ineffectual in the tidal wave of disease and poison fighting it out inside my body.

The nurse unloads the contents of her arms and checks the contents of my black-plastic covered bag connected to me through the CVC, "Almost empty, mate. I reckon twenty more minutes."

"I've never seen you before," I say, because even though it has probably only been ten minutes since I spoke to Dr Martin, I'm afraid I'm forgetting how to speak. I need my tongue, my throat, my brain, all to trace those familiar steps. I fear forgetting. I think of my grandmother, my father's mother, she had dementia. She forgot things bit by bit, and in my last memory of her, she was at our house before Dad died and before I was diagnosed, she was having trouble keeping up with the conversation. She remembered enough conversational skills to say, "You're Katniss. I'm Katniss," as she was my namesake, and I remember how she smelled of a slightly off perfume, which she'd probably forgotten to replace. She was disoriented and upset, because she couldn't remember how to be involved in conversation and she knew it, and she wanted something she was good at, to make her feel at home, and in control. She saw a broom in the courtyard, and she began to sweep. Sweeping was the last thing she forgot. I remember, I used to always fear growing old like Grandma Katniss, and forgetting everything, and eventually being curled up in a nursing home being fed by nurses, because I'd forgotten how to do that. And now that my world has turned completely upside down, I fear dying young. I hate fearing, but I'm pretty sure it would be the last thing I'd ever forget how to do.

The nurse looks at me. She has short, messy brown hair, and beautiful doe eyes; dark and full. Her voice is realistic and distinctly not patronising in the way that too many nurses' voices are. "Well, I'm new here," she says, "Do you remember Annie? Annie Cresta? I'm replacing her, she left on maternity leave. And I must say, I definitely prefer nursing in trauma than nursing here. You guys are all depressed and boring."

I raise my eyebrows. I don't think I've ever heard a nurse be so blunt, so brutally honest. I don't quite know what to say, so I challenge her, "From trauma to oncology? Terminal illness and trauma are completely different things. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

She snorts, "Of course I know what I'm doing, how do you think I got the job, stupid? I studied oncology before ending up in trauma, and thank God I did. Still, it'll be a year until I'm back there with the drama and the urgency and the predominately unconscious, non-bitchy, unphilosophical patients again. You guys are all crazy in this ward, and the atmosphere's hardly a joyous. I'll always prefer action and chaos to resignation and despair."

"Well I'm very sorry I haven't been in a car crash recently," I grumble, "I'm sorry I'm just sitting here mundanely, surround by resignation and despair," I repeat her words back at her, injecting sarcasm into them as I say so, effectively belittling her opinions. Because I am just a lovely human being.

"So am I mate," the nurse says, checking up on some machine I've been trying to teach myself to understand, "I mean, wouldn't you rather be in a coma? Wouldn't you rather you suffer quickly than chronically?"

"Why are you talking to me about the philosophy behind my suffering?" I snap, "I thought you said you hated philosophical patients."

"You're okay," she shrugs, "It's not the philosophical patients I hate anyway. Heck, I even studied bloody philosophy part time before I did medicine. No, it's the need for philosophy. Like, why should you guys have to cope with all this shit? Why do I see kids who have faced more adversity than most adults, and speak and act and think like adults as a result? Didn't this disease rob you of your childhood? Of who you are?"

"This disease_ is_ who I am," I admit with a small shrug of my own, "It's only been four years but I've already forgotten who I was. I know it's sad," I add, "But we've all got our adversity in life, and no, it's not always fair. But we try."

"Pretty smart for a kid," she concedes, and I don't bother to point out that I am sixteen and she just said that I had the maturity of an adult, because maybe labels are unnecessary, (I've been questioning a lot of things lately,) "I'm Johanna Mason, cynical realist and probably the bitchiest nurse you'll ever meet," she pauses, looks at me, and sighs, "Oh, I'm sorry for dumping this on you. I'm meant to ditch my personality problems around patients and be a nice nurse."

"Personality problems," I repeat and snicker softly, "No problem. I like them. I like you."

"Alright," she looks down at her notepad, "Katniss," she tests the name out on her tongue, "I guess I'll be one of your allies in this war against cancer," she emphasises the last few words in a tone not unlike a cheesy action film trailer, and I confess to laughing a little, "See you around Katniss."

"Bye Johanna," I say, and despite being in a slightly better mood than earlier, it doesn't take me long to sink back into my bitchy stupor. When Johanna returns with Mum and Prim to unhook and discharge me, I pretend to be asleep in order to avoid human contact. I don't think anyone really believes me, but Prim decides to subtly humour me, and makes a show of waking me up.

"Time to go home Kat," Mum says in falsely bright tones. I can tell she's having a bad day too, because not only does she look worn out and rather cranky, Prim looks like she's been hit with the receiving end of Mum's fits, just as she always does. It's not a comfortable ride home, and I'm counting down the minutes until I can go up to bed without appearing too sick, (4pm in bed hardly exudes health, does it?) until I receive a phone call.

Naturally, I let Prim get it, because the couch is just too damn comfy, but soon she's hollering down the hallway that, "It's Peeta! For you!"

I get up gingerly, testing out my feet and fearing what's waiting for me on the other end of that line. A sick Peeta? The alternative is infinitely better yet infinitely worse: a healthy Peeta.

"Hello?" I ask tentatively, my throat scratchy with mucus, "Peeta?"

"Hey Kat," his voice too, is thick and obstructed. Apparently we react to chemo in the same way, "I just got unhooked. Prim told me you got home half an hour ago."

"That was only half an hour?" I groan, "I am so dead Peeta. Bloody chemo takes everything out of me."

"I know the feeling," he muses, and he pauses thoughtfully, "It's a nightmare."

"At least yours has a point to it," I say, trying to keep the venom in my voice to a bare minimum. I know from the start I shouldn't have said it, but it's too late already to take it back, and I know that even if I could, it would kill me not to say it.

"Katniss?" Peeta asks softly, gently, innocently, "What do you mean?"

It hurts me to hurt him. But a human can only take enough shit before they start spilling it back out to the world, and often it gets flung at the kindest, and the luckiest. It's not Peeta's fault he's a lucky one. "I mean, that chemo is okay for you, because you've had Dr Boggs speak to you, with his whole team of people devoted to keeping you alive, and said that you have a massive chance. That this chemo will actually almost definitely kill your cancer, and once that happens, they'll get rid of the course with a conveniently placed set of kidneys!"

"Oh," Peeta says delicately, a sad little exhalation of air. There is silence over the phone. I can see Prim looking at me warily. I hear Peeta's tired breaths. I am suddenly fighting the urge to cry. And in just those few seconds, I am reduced into a scared little child.

"Do I have a chance Peeta?" I ask tearfully.

I hear him switch from confused to nurturing, protective, comforting boyfriend, "Oh Katniss, of course you do baby. I am so sorry this is so hard for you, and I know it seems easy for me-"

"That's because it is easy for you!" I scream into the phone, tears flowing freely now. There is a stunned silence on the other side of the phone. And, like I seem to be far too often, I am afraid, "Peeta!" I scream desperately, "Peeta please don't hate me! I'm sorry I'm like this! I don't hate you, I could never hate you, please don't hate me Peeta, please!"

"Katniss," he says, and I think that maybe he is crying too, but softly and sadly, unlike me, tears flying hot, angry and desperate, "Katniss, I could never hate you. But you're not happy. You're not in a good place and I really want you to be. We both need you to be happier. To be better. You're already sick in your body, I don't want your mind to be affected too."

"Are you calling me mental?" I ask pleadingly, as though unable to accept the fact that I am really not okay. I know that, "I'm not okay Peeta," I say in a trembling voice into the phone.

"I know you're not," Peeta says calmly, "But I'll help you. I can't stand to know you're like this, not when I'm getting better, more optimistic."

"Okay," I say, because I really have no idea what he's getting at by saying this. At first I mentally curse Peeta for being so unclear, then I explore the idea that maybe my brain simply isn't functioning enough to understand simple language. Just like Grandma Katniss, forgetting how to have a conversation, I find myself thinking, before chiding myself. Cancer's bad enough, without a self-diagnosed and self-caused case of early on-set dementia.

"Katniss," he says, and I snap out of my reverie, "Do you feel up to getting to the corner café?"

"Not really," I say, my leaden limbs suddenly feeling even heavier.

"Cool, neither do I," Peeta says, and then I feel his demeanour change, "I'll meet you there in ten minutes."

"Peeta!" I whine and I can practically hear his smile.

"Suck it up, buttercup."

Easy for him to say.

* * *

"I can't believe you made me leave my house and come here. I was about to go to bed," I sip my coffee tentatively. It's not really my thing. I almost asked for a hot chocolate, but I hate feeling childlike. Plus, the waitress was giving us strange looks enough. Still, I won't deny we look a strange couple. Both completely bald, skinny to the point of anorexic appearance, especially pronounced in my already slender frame, tissues full of snot by our hands, visible skin sores all over, and, to top it all off, I can't imagine my face looks even a little unlike a zombie's. I mean, Peeta's doesn't.

"Bed at five?" Peeta raises an eyebrow. At least that stayed when the hair on his head couldn't last. Eyebrows often linger, but some people aren't so lucky, "You sound like an elderly citizen."

"Come on," I say, with a roll of my eyes, "You can't deny that you'd like to be in bed right now."

"No," Peeta shakes his head earnestly, "I can deny that just fine. Katniss, there is nowhere on this earth I would rather be than right here, with you," he gives me a small smile, shy and sweet, as though he had no right to be complimenting me. My lips twitch up at the corners as I look down at my hands, as though a smile is something to be ashamed of. His hand reaches under my chin and tilts it up, "At least let me watch you smile," his face goes sad, "I hardly see it these days."

"Well, they're not exactly joyous days, these days," I mumble, and he lets his hand drop. He seem content to simply watch me, even in my ugliness and awkwardness, "Peeta, can I ask you something?"

"No," he says sarcastically, "You may not ask me anything. I took you to this café just for the fantastic coffee," he raises his glass up in mock toast, and I tentatively clink mine against his.

"What does it feel like to know you're going to make it?" I blurt out, and he looks as though he's been dealt a physical blow. I feel horrible, but I have to know.

"I don't know I'm going to make it," he says simply, and I'm about to interrupt him with the overwhelming statistics, but he read s my mind and holds a hand to silence me, "Hear me out Katniss. Yes, the chances are that I'm going to make it. But there will always be that chance that I don't make it. Come on Katniss, don't call me a pessimist. Yes, I know that technically you could call me one. Think about this from my point of view. You're looking at the guy who has gone into remission three times, almost always right on the deadline. I think I'm out, then all of a sudden, everyone's freaking out because if they do the wrong thing, I'll die soon. When I was ten, I was very close to ending up in palliative care, but luckily, radio therapy had a profound effect on me. But heck, it wasn't good enough to completely get rid of it all, and it wasn't good enough to save me the next time I went into remission. I am so lucky with what I've got now, but I can't trust my good luck to last. It never has."

I sigh, every point he has made is correct, "Well, if you ever find out, which I pray you do, can you tell me what it feels like?"

Peeta sighs, "Katniss," he looks like he's about to say something else, but pauses, as though in consideration, "Katniss, Katniss the girl on fire. I'm not going to tell you you're going to be completely fine. And I'm sorry, because maybe that's what you expected, and maybe that's what you want. But I can't."

"That's okay," I say numbly.

"Katniss, you know better than anyone why. I've just been talking about the uncertainty of my own future, and you've agreed with me, but still, I know that in your eyes, my future is set in stone in comparison to yours. It could go either way, and I'll live in continual hope that you will live, even if I don't. Because you deserve life, Katniss, and if the world was fair, you wouldn't be struck down with this disease."

"If only the world was fair, right?" I raise my eyebrows and smile a little.

"Ah, such an impossible prospect," he says with almost tangible fatigue, "Do you think there are people who have a perfect lot in life? Like, to balance out our misery, and the misery of all the kids in Africa and the soldiers in Afghanistan and the people on little islands being swallowed up by the sea… do you think the world works that way?"

"No," I say honestly, "I think the world's just a bit of a bitch. I think everyone's got their adversity, just some more that others."

"I love you Katniss," Peeta tells me, and he kisses me softly. I drape my arm over his shoulder and his fits around my waist as we leave the café and our half-consumed coffees for a walk in the park. We sit beneath a tree as the sun begins to set.

"You know, this used to be my crying tree," I say, looking up at the branches above me and recognising an old friend.

"Crying tree?"

"Yeah, I'd pass it on the way home from school," I say, "And when I was really sad, I'd sit right here and cry. Because it's so close to my place, if there was something up with Mum I'd come here too," I run over the bark with my fingers, "This tree knows me intimately."

"You've been cheating on me Katniss," Peeta says with a smile, and I slap him lightly.

"You're an idiot Peeta."

"It's a lot of fun Katniss. You should try it."

"I think I was idiot enough when I thought it would be a good idea to jump off a cliff," I say evenly, and Peeta rolls his eyes.

"Not this again. I'm telling you, it was collective stupidity. And think about it Katniss, I mean, it bloody hurt to break my ankle, but flying through the air with you was great."

"Yeah," I agree, "Flying's great. If I could have a superpower, that would be it. No invisibility of mind-reading shit. I'd fly. Oh, damn the limitations of earth," and then we realise the meaning behind my words and are quiet as he caresses me gently, his kisses working up my cheek and up to my mouth.

"So what was your ingenious plan to cheer me up?" I ask eventually, pulling my mouth away from his and instead leaning into him, my head nestled into the crook of his neck.

"Simple," Peeta says, "I want you to close your eyes," I hesitantly obey, "And remember the good things. Think of a day, a really happy day, where you did not once want to die. Think of a day with no pain, and no anger, and definitely no cancer."

* * *

_The small girl with blonde hair almost to her waist was eternally fascinated by butterflies. The butterfly house at the zoo was always the first destination of the tight-knit family of four, and as they lived nearby, it was a common sight to behold: a beautiful blonde woman with her dark husband, walking so tightly and reading each other's movements as though they knew everything there was to know about each other and loved it dearly, with two small girls weaving around their legs and taking their hands in their own, shrieking excitedly and singing snatches of songs they only knew a few lyrics to. The dark-haired girl always preferred the wolves, just like her father, but as he said, that would be their little secret, and that they should pretend the butterflies were the best just to make the others smile, because that was what they did in that family. They liked to make the others smile._

_When the blonde girl was seven, already as pretty and doll-like as her mother, but in a much younger, more innocent way, and her dark-haired sister was nine, their father told them it was time to take them somewhere more beautiful than the butterfly house at the zoo. It took some time, but together, the beautiful mother and the gentle father eventually convinced their youngest child that places like those existed. Places better than the butterfly house at the zoo._

_"Are you, are you, coming to the…" the blonde girl paused mid-song, halfway through the large field of grass by which the family had parked. A forest loomed on the horizon, "Daddy, where was it they were going? I can never remember this song."_

_The father looked at the beautiful mother, who shook her head, and the father said, "I don't know honey. That's a silly song anyway. How about we sing this one..."_

_The dark-haired girl watched on curiously. She knew that song, and sensing her mother's disproval, instantly knew that she would know it forever. _Are you, are you, coming to the tree?_ The walk was fairly long, and once they got to the forest, the blonde girl was in her mother's loving arms, apparently tired of walking already. However the dark-haired girl was sure not to accept such help. She loved the forest and would continue to for the rest of her life. The awe she felt, brought on by the beauty of threes and sun and the moving shade and the hum of the wild entranced her, and fatigue was far from her mind. She belonged to the forest, and the forest to her._

_"This is it," the father said after a while, as the family of four stepped into the clearing in perfect unison. Temporarily blinded by the piercing summer sun, the dark-haired girl held a forearm up to her eyes, but her father's arm guided it down. And once it did, she fell in love with the place. The lake was not particularly large, but it was a lake of substance, and the summer had not reduced it to anything mediocre. It was a flat, green expanse, and the father pointed out, was deep in some areas, and told the girls to be careful._

_The blonde haired girl too, was in paradise, as butterflies flitted around the abundance of flora, sucking nectar from the most colourful flowers. Much to the blonde's delight, one landed on her candy pink sleeve, just as another landed on her mother's red hat. The family, now mutilated, still has that photo in a shiny silver frame, the two blondes with their large smiles and respective butterflies, sheer ecstasy reflected in their frozen expressions._

_The dark-haired girl, always closer to her father, stuck with him. She didn't really care for butterflies, especially after spending so many hours in that overheated butterfly house. They took off their shoes and then their pants and then their shirts, and the gentle father dove into the water, disappearing under it's murky surface. The girl panicked. Where was her father? Had he drowned? But he came right back up, and took her out into the centre of the lake with him. Suspended in green glass water, surrounded by trees, held in the arms of her father._

_If she could be trapped in a moment for eternity, it would be this one. No pain, no anger, and definitely no cancer._

* * *

**Yay, another chapter's up! Sorry this took so long. I'd like to say I've been busy but I honestly haven't. I'm on holidays. *cries in shame* Still, it's here now, and I really hope you enjoyed it. A lot more action in the next chapter, which is hopefully something you're looking forward to. Any ideas, or even anything to put on the List, I'd love to hear it. Oh, and uh, I didn't have a crying tree... *walks away awkwardly* -L**


	13. Have Something to Pray To

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

_7. Give into your feelings. Take the leap. Do what they tell you to do._

_8. Cut up cooking chocolate. Don't question our wisdom. Just do it. You'll know what we're talking about once you try it._

_9. Find a healthy person who doesn't treat you any differently for your disease. Then take them to Vegas and marry them._

_10. Think of ways it could be worse. All the ways. I promise you, they exist._

_11. Prove a point. There is a beautiful satisfaction which sprouts only from the words, 'I told you so.'_

_12. Think about better days. We've all had them - those blissful days where you haven't once wanted to die._

_13. Have something to pray to. Religion is more useful than you'd think. It helps, albeit temporarily._

* * *

When I wake up on Thursday morning, it is to yet another variation of the heartbreaking nightmare I endure almost every time I fall asleep, as of now. Well, endure isn't really the word for it. It doesn't take long for me to wake in a fit of sweat, covered in my own tears, with more on the way.

Once, a long time ago, I used to dream about my father's death. Used to wake up screaming for him to run. Or worse, I'd be in his body. Crushed under the weight of the building that had collapsed upon him and some co-workers. Bricks and mortar and clouded in dust. Ribs broken, lungs suffocated. Maybe my head knocked mercifully by a chunk of something or other. Sometimes I was lucky enough to be my father and watch everything go black suddenly. But most of the time I struggled to breathe in agonising pain and darkness. And then I'd wake up, in a pool of sweat, blankets tangled around me, struggling for air. Gasping as it filled my lungs. Drowning in my imagination, suffocating in my dreams, crushed in my mind. Tortured.

Now, I dream a different dream. It always starts the same.

"The cancer's spread to your brain Katniss," Dr Martin is saying earnestly, and sighs, "It's in your cerebrum. Soon you'll start forgetting things."

"I've got to find Peeta," I say this every time.

"You'd better hurry, he's about to go into surgery," Dr Martin tells me, "In room C901."

And then he walks away. The panic follows. I am running blindly around the hospital, my memory fading unrealistically fast. But of course, because it's a dream, it doesn't feel unrealistic. I am fading. Forgetting.

C901. Always C901. Where is the damned thing? C901.

"Please, my memory is fading."

"I'm going to die."

"Please just take me to C901 so I can say goodbye."

I never make it to C901, no matter how fast I run. No matter how many people I ask. See, I begin to forget how to speak, and my voice out garbled. No one understands. Every time, I wake up in a blind panic, crying because I never want to forget, and I want Peeta.

I breathe slowly, in and out. The dream was different tonight. I still don't make it to C901. I still wake up sweaty and teary. I still begin to forget. Except in the nightmare that awoke me, someone understands my garbled cries for help, my pleading to find C901.

"Peeta Mellark?" they say kindly, "You want to see Peeta?"

I nod excitedly. My heart speeds up. I will find Peeta tonight.

"I'm sorry darling, but there's been an accident in the surgery. Peeta's dead."

I hadn't thought the dream could get any worse, but apparently, I was very, very much wrong. _Thanks brain,_ I think, trying to keep my breathing under control, _I really appreciate you finding new ways to torture me._

Once my breathing is back under control, I get out of bed on shaky legs. Today is the day of Peeta's surgery. No wonder my nightmare's worse than usual. Deep breaths Katniss. I look at my mattress, stained with sweat. Night sweating is just another charming symptom of lymphoma. Something to do with it messing up my immune system, though don't ask me what that has to do with my temperature. I know you're meant to completely understand your disease and the reasons behind your symptoms or whatever, but I really have no concern whatsoever regarding night sweats. I mean, that's not what'll kill me in the end. I'm much more concerned about platelet deficiency related nosebleeds. They're bloody dangerous.

I grab the blankets, the sheets, the mattress covering, everything, and hurl them down the stairs in the direction of the laundry. I watch them float down, billowing and twisting, suspended in the air. My breathing slows. I catch a whiff of myself, the smell of cold sweat and oily hair and something I think might be sadness.

_Time for a shower, Katniss._

The water hurts at first, on my frail and damaged skin, but I hold out for the effects I know will come. Under the hot water, my muscles, that I didn't even realise were tensed, begin to relax. _Told you Katniss,_ that smug voice inside my head tells me. The mirrors begin to fog, and I begin to realise how long I've been in here. But I don't get out, and I tell myself it's because the shower is so enjoyable. It isn't. It's because I'm too scared to go face the world. I'm perfectly content in my world of steam and water and soaps for damaged skin.

But I'm not, not really. I'm not happy, and I know it. I need to face the things that trouble me. I need to see Peeta off before he has his surgery. I need to let go of my fear, and of my jealousy. I need to go into the real world.

Water off, hair squeezed out. As I weakly push the shower door open, I'm shocked by a chilling wave of cold air . At that, I almost run back into the shower, back into the heat, where I can't exactly stop thinking or living, but I can certainly procrastinate the questions, and numb the senses. I hate the real world, I realise.

"Katniss!" Prim is sitting on my bed, flicking through a magazine. She tries to act casual, but I know she's been waiting, and anxiously at that. I mean, she's in my room, for God's sakes. It is generally considered a very private and isolated mental asylum full of dirty clothes that isn't to be touched by the rest of the world, especially clean, organised, mentally competent people like Prim.

"Hi Prim," I say rather flatly, being the utterly frustrating and inconsistent sister I am, and motioning with my hands for her to swivel around and face the wall while I get changed, "What you reading?"

"Nothing of any measure of importance," Prim says with an even shrug of her shoulders, "Fashion and VS Angels and multiple Kardashians. You know the stuff."

"I don't really even read them," I sigh, not in defence, but in honesty, "I typically won't get past the second page before I fall asleep or end up in the hospital with some goddamn cancer problem."

I say this lightly, but Prim's face shadows, "I think you need some meaningless crap in your life," she waves the magazine around, "Oh, and mum's got some high-protein breakfast ready for you in the fridge. Apparently she's been discussing your diet with your MDT," she refers to my multidisciplinary team, the assembled group of doctors, nurses and specialists whose job it is to plan out my treatment and see it through. They are led by Dr Martin, who seems to be an expert in everything.

"Protein?" I ask, "So I'm having a breakfast of meats, eggs and peanuts?" I ask indignantly, my mind going back to food pyramids analysed in distant primary school days.

Prim snorts, "I'm not sure, but I think there's protein-supplementary drinks involved. Chocolate flavoured apparently, so it can't be shocking."

I shake my head at her, "You clearly don't know medical food."

"Clearly," she says wryly, and I can mentally picture her rolling her eyes.

Once I'm changed in my signature grey trackies and green school spray jacket we pad down the stairs together, smiling sleepily in my case, and with derision in hers. Eventually the smiles fade, and I wait for her to bring it up.

She doesn't bring it up as she makes her toast and I make my cereal, though she does tell me to put it away and eat my protein things. She doesn't bring it up when I turn on the TV. She doesn't bring it up when I pour my protein-shake down the sink, (I'm sure it doesn't taste that bad, but I disapprove on principle,) and she doesn't bring it up when I fall off the couch and lie moaning on the floor. So I take matters into my own hands

"What time are we going to the hospital today?"

She looks mildly surprised that I didn't run out of patience earlier.

"We're going in at twelve," Prim says slowly, "Peeta will go under sedation at 12:45. Mr Mellark says he's really pissed because he's hungry," Prim giggled a little, motioning to her phone as way of explanation to her current communication with Mr Mellark, "For God's sakes Katniss, at least have some of the peanuts or something."

"I think I hate protein," I mutter, heaving myself back onto the couch like some absurd, beached whale, "My ribosomes can go to hell."

"You didn't hate it until you were told to consume it," Prim rolls her eyes, "Plus, I'm pretty sure that ribosomes are kind of necessary," at this she pauses, "Is this because you're worried about Peeta?"

"Well yes, of course," I say earnestly, "But that doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters, Katniss," Prim slams her toast onto the counter with uncharacteristic violence, crumbs spraying across the smooth bench top, "Your feelings, they matter. I don't think you spend enough time thinking about other people, and not enough on yourself. You don't care about yourself, you really don't. And how you feel depends so much on how you treat yourself, not on how others treat you. Others treat you great, but you're still unhappy. That's because you don't treat yourself well enough."

I roll my eyes, "Look Prim, I really don't think it's a problem. Trust me."

She sighs, because no one can win an argument against me when I'm in this mood, even if they have a completely valid argument that is far superior to mine, like now, "Okay Katniss."

When 11:45 swings around, Mrs Mellark is at our door, scowling even more than usual, "Get in girls," she says gruffly and walks briskly into the car. Her blonde hair that she shares with her husband and everyone else in her family is tied up in a thinning ponytail. It is a cold day following a freezing morning, her jacket and scarf are wrapped tightly around her as though she's trying to protect herself from the whole world, as though she could block it out with a few layers of fabric. She looks shrunken, and very old. Peeta says that she and Mr Mellark are always fighting. As I brave her icy glare and hop into the front seat next to her, I almost feel sorry for her.

"How are you?" she asks stiffly.

I shrug. It's an ordinary question, compulsory in most situations, but I guess it's an improvement, "I'm sick," and I sound like I'm telling her I have a cold, or a cough, or didn't even get enough sleep last night.

"Yes you are," Mrs Mellark agrees, indicating to turn right, "Your chemo over?"

"For now," I say sullenly, "I'm having a PET in a few weeks, then we'll see what needs to be done." I don't elaborate. I know, and Prim kind of knows, and Mrs Mellark probably suspects, that if the tumour hasn't shrunk, or even worse, has grown, I'm probably stuffed. Like, there's nothing else they think will work. I've been close to death a hundred times before, but I've never had so much depending on one PET scan. I've never been told that if this doesn't work, nothing will.

"Any chance of you having transplants?" she asks, keeping her eyes trained on the road out of necessity. I think she might almost care.

"I don't think so," I shake my head, "Unless I get some really good news, I probably won't qualify to be worth the stem cells or whatever," my eyes flit to the rear view mirror, where I can see Prim in the back seat, "Of course, there is every possibility it's worked. Chemo's worked wonders on me before so uh, hopefully I'll qualify for that surgery, and uh, then it will stop coming back. That's the point of a stem cell transplant. It helps to stop persisting tumours, but you have to get rid of them first."

I'm rambling, weakly at that, and we all know it. Prim looks down at her phone in her lap, which I'm pretty sure isn't even turned on. An awkward silence fills the car. Mrs Mellark turns the radio on, and some ridiculous techno music begins to play. I snort with quiet derision, "I swear to you, I'm not even a part of this generation."

Prim laughs, relieved for the breaking of the tension, "I think this is a robot singing."

"I get that feeling," I agree.

"British robot," Mrs Mellark points out mundanely, and I don't know why, but Prim and I are in fits of laughter.

"For God's sakes girls," Mrs Mellark sweeps her blonde fringe out of her face, "It's really not that funny."

* * *

I walk through the hospital doors a good ten paces ahead of Prim and Mrs Mellark, my hands twisting in anxiety as I take long and fast paces. I storm past the main receptionist in a whirl of nerves, and press the elevator button a good twenty times before Mrs Mellark and Prim finally catch up to me.

"We've got plenty of time Katniss," Prim tells me, "It's only twenty past."

I look to Mrs Mellark, perhaps for affirmation, perhaps out of habit, but she drops her eyes. Since the Great Moment of the British Robot she's gone silent and frozen once more. I turn back to Prim.

"Cool," I say plainly, and continue to press the button like a spastic.

When the elevator finally comes - it feels like we wait for years - we pile in alongside all the other people. I stand right up against the wall, surveying the packed room. There are some interesting people in here. A deliriously happy looking woman in a wheelchair being pushed by a man who I think might be her husband - she's clearly being let out. There's an old couple who look terribly fatigued and shrunken, leaning into each other in a way only two people who had known each other for a lifetime could. A pale girl with cannulae inserted in her nose and a pole with a drip clutched in her hand. I have a strong hunch she's from my ward.

I hum quietly to myself, and Prim catches my eye. She hums along with me, two girls in the corner of an elevator crammed full of sick and sad people, humming that annoying tune that becomes Olive's ringtone in '_Easy A_.' Aren't we just a blessing to public society?

_I got a pocket, got a pocket full of sunshine. I got a pocket, got a pocket full of sunshine, I…_

The elevator dings, and Prim and I skirt around the edges of the small space on our way to the door. Every person's eyes are on us, silently staring in sad disbelief. The look that says, "Oh God, youths." Even the little girl, who I doubt can be any older than nine, is looking at us with eyes that say, "Oh God, youths." It's no surprise to any of us, acutely aware of the sadness and depression that fills hospitals. I can feel it leeching into me already.

"Well that was sufficiently awkward," Mrs Mellark says tightly as she grabs my wrist and pulls me through the throng of people I can't quite seem to part with my slight frame and shy demeanour.

"Sorry," I mumble, rubbing my wrist where Mrs Mellark's wedding ring has been pressing into it.

"Don't apologise," she snorts, now briskly striding down the hallway with Prim and I struggling to keep up, trailing behind her, "It was arguably quite amusing. Everyone here's just feeling a little too depressed to enjoy it."

Her tone stays monotone as she says this, and I follow closely on her heels. For the first time in pretty much forever, I am compelled by Mrs Mellark. She's certainly interesting. And conflicted. And bitchy. She reminds me a little of me.

"Dr Martin?" I catch a glimpse of his mop of dark hair as he walks down a corridor intersecting with ours.

"Oncologist, haematologist and MDT leader extraordinaire," he answers with a comical flick of his hair, his shiny leather shoes glinting in the light that pours in from the windows. I can't help but laugh. "I assume you're seeing Peeta?" he asks me, a frown appearing on his forehead as I stop laughing and go back to looking visibly anxious.

"Yeah," I say, twisting my hands together.

"I'm sure Mrs M knows where she's going," Dr Martin dips his head in Mrs Mellark's direction, looking slightly timid. Perhaps he can sense her anxiety. She's not exactly subtle about it. Just like me.

"Yeah, she does," I say lamely, "Uhm… yeah. We'll go now."

"Alright, you do that Katniss," he says with a light-hearted tone I can't seem to muster and smiling slightly at me, "Good luck Katniss."

I begin to go on my way, then something occurs to me and I whip around, "Dr Martin!" I call desperately.

He turns around, "Yes Katniss?"

I jog over to him, but have to stop because I'm panting already, "Where's room C901?"

He looks at me strangely.

"You know, just for future reference," I explain.

He looks even more alarmed at this. "Do you know anything about this C901?" he asks delicately. I can't work it out. Dr Martin seems genuinely concerned by my interest, and I don't know what to make of it.

"No," I say slowly, "Why?"

"It's the morgue," Dr Martin says in a low voice, and while I'm still standing there, stunned, he looks up as a nurse call his name, "Coming Anita!" he calls, and looks down at me, still with that concerned look on his face, "I've got to go Katniss."

"Bye Dr Martin," I say faintly.

C901 is the morgue? I shudder at the thought, walking as quickly as I can to catch up with Mrs Mellark and a very alarmed looking Prim.

"Is everything alright Katniss?" she asks, and the frown between her eyebrows reminds me of the one I saw on Dr Martin's face.

"Yeah," I say breathlessly, "Everything's fine."

_It's a freaky coincidence Katniss,_ I tell myself determinedly,_ Peeta's not going to the morgue… and neither are you._

But I can't quite banish the thought from my mind. My hands join and go to twist themselves again, but I make them sit still as I tilt my head subtly towards the sky and whisper to whoever is up there, "Please don't let us go there."

* * *

After the emotional rollercoaster that was the car trip, elevator ride and conversation with Dr Martin, we finally make it to Peeta's temporary room, not in the finest of spirits. Well, that would be an understatement. I'm an emotional wreck already, and the sight of Peeta, my Peeta, lying on the bed looking as weak as I've seen him in a while, is enough to tip me over the edge.

"Peeta," I breathe, quickly making my way over to his side, where I clasp his hand in a truly melodramatic and clichéd manner. I swear to you, I am not intentionally like this.

"Hey Kat," he smiles up at me, "How are you?"

"Like shit," I try to smile back at him, but it ends up as a sort of grimace.

"You would hands down be the worst motivational speaker ever, my lovely," he says to me, and I can't help but laugh.

"What's that saying? Oh yes, funny because it's true," Prim says cheekily, and I glare at her without any real malice, but without the energy to smile.

"Look at you, can't even retaliate at the ratbag who just insulted you," Peeta says, his sparkling eyes sending a smile in Prim's direction.

"You started it!" she protests.

I look between them, from one to the other. My two favourite people in the whole world. One of them is lying in a hospital bed, and the other one seems to think it's hilarious.

The room quiets down eventually, after Peeta and Prim laugh about stupid things that really aren't funny, and Mrs Mellark announces she is going to get some water. Prim decides to go with her. I don't know what they all expect to go on while they leave.

"Peeta," I say quietly, looking into those blue eyes. My throat burns and tightens, and for a second I fear I won't be able to get those words out, just like in my frequently recurring nightmare, "Peeta," I say again, trying to keep my voice strong, "I'm scared." It's out there now. Plaintive, unprotected, uncovered, bare. It feels like I've told the world, when I'm really only spilling it to the boy who already own my heart and can probably see through it already.

"So am I Katniss," he whispers, and I feel a rush of affection surge through me. I grasp his hand with fierce protection.

"What are you scared of?" I ask in trembling tones.

"I'm afraid of closing my eyes when the anaesthetic goes in, and never opening them. And never being able to see you, or my mum, or my dad, or my annoying brothers, or Prim, ever again. I'm scared that this will be the end," he says in a voice so low I have to lean in close to hear it. He sounds kind of like a child, but kind of like an old man, "What are you scared of, girl on fire?"

"I'm scared that one day, there will either be a world without you, or a world where I'm not around to be with you," I say simply, and then almost start crying again because just saying the words somehow makes it feel like it will be true.

"Isn't it possible for us to both live?" he asks desperately, "Can't this surgery go really fantastically, and your chemo obliterate every last part of that cancer in your system, and then you qualify for a stem cell transplant and the cancer never come back for us ever again and we could just be happy? Isn't that possible?"

"Of course it is Peeta," I say fairly, "But it's the fear of it not happening that keeps me up at night."

A nurse comes in, "Alright mate, we're off to theatre," she takes his bed and begins to push in out the door.

I am slow to catch on to what is happening, but soon I'm chasing him down the hallway, bent over so I can talk to him in a low stream of words as we head off towards the operating theatre.

"Peeta, I don't know if it will be fine, but I think it will. And just think, when that anaesthetic goes into you and it's time to close your eyes, don't be scared. I want you to think of me as you go under, and I'll think of you, and I'll pray, or something, but I'll do whatever it is, and when you probably wake up, I promise, I'll be the first person you see."

"And what if I don't wake up?" he asks, his voice going husky as he does so.

"Then come haunt me," I say, tears falling from my face onto his, and mixing with his own tears, leaking out of his perfect eyes and slipping down his cheeks.

"It's a date," he says with a smile, and then he's gone, and Mrs Mellark and Prim are with me, hugging me. Somehow I missed their presence in all of that. And as I am encased in their shaking arms, I clasp my untwisting hands and I pray. I don't know who's is up there, I don't know if there's anyone up there at all. I went to a Catholic primary school, and while I thought the Old Testament was a little dodgy, I think Jesus was a nice character, whether he really did all that stuff or not. I like what he stands for, mainly. And so, I stand there, wrapped up in two pairs of arms, praying to a man who was a god who was apparently watching over me, and prayed that Peeta would wake up.

* * *

**Well that took me bloody FOREVER to get up. I hope it was at least partially worth the wait. I'm too exhausted write much of an author's note, (you're probably glad haha,) so I'll leave it at that. If you reviewed it would mean the world to me! -L**


	14. Have A Fashion Sense

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

_7. Give into your feelings. Take the leap. Do what they tell you to do._

_8. Cut up cooking chocolate. Don't question our wisdom. Just do it. You'll know what we're talking about once you try it._

_9. Find a healthy person who doesn't treat you any differently for your disease. Then take them to Vegas and marry them._

_10. Think of ways it could be worse. All the ways. I promise you, they exist._

_11. Prove a point. There is a beautiful satisfaction which sprouts only from the words, 'I told you so.'_

_12. Think about better days. We've all had them - those blissful days where you haven't once wanted to die._

_13. Have something to pray to. Religion is more useful than you'd think. It helps, albeit temporarily._

_14. Have a fashion sense. Please. Peeta is begging you._

* * *

I take my stressing to new levels once Peeta goes under sedation. Apparently the surgery will take around three hours, and I am determined to stay at the hospital for that time, despite being completely exhausted due to the fact that I haven't slept properly in days - the anxiety has been too much. Crippling, suffocating, heart-wrenching. The possibility of Peeta dying has never been this close, or at least, that's how it feels. As I sit back in my chair in the waiting room, a white-faced, ever-present ghost, I go back to my facts.

* * *

_There is a 21% chance of mild bleeding after the surgery. There is a 5% chance of upper gastrointestinal bleeding, much more serious. Over 50% of patients will suffer from some form of infection up to a year after the transplant. This procedure could also affect Peeta's heart. Heart attacks, strokes, deep venous thrombosis._

* * *

Only Peeta's left kidney is riddled with cancer, his right has a tumour less than four centimetres in area. This means that while the left kidney will have to go, his right will be partially cut.

* * *

_Even with the always prescribed immunosuppression medication, there is a 10-20% chance of Peeta's body rejecting his new kidney. Rejection is the most common serious problem after kidney surgery. Symptoms of rejection are found quickly, and hopefully early notice will save Peeta if rejection occurs. Symptoms of rejection include very high temperatures, flu-like symptoms, tenderness around the kidney, swelling around the kidney area caused by fluid, sudden weight gain, significant decrease in urine output._

* * *

I can already tell that I'll be seeing these symptoms everywhere in Peeta once he comes out, regardless of whether they are really occurring or not. If he does come out. _Oh, come on Katniss, of course he's going to come out._ I clutch my stomach as a wave of nausea hits me. I am so tired, yet so unable to sleep.

* * *

_If rejection is suspected, it will have to be confirmed by the doctors first. This will be by renal ultrasounds, renal scans, the testing of renal blood flow, a renal biopsy - a sample of the kidney. Medication will be prescribed, the patient will be monitored in the hospital, and most of the time, they'll recover._

* * *

Despite the reassuring facts - kidney transplants are generally relatively safe procedures - it is the slim chance that something could go wrong that continues to haunt me. The doctors and nurses mainly avoid me, giving wary glances in my direction, but those looks are always mingled with pity. I wonder how many pitiful creatures like me they've seen, haunting the theatre floor, waiting for loved ones. Unable to sleep, unable to move. Might as well be unable to breathe, as I'm pretty much lifeless anyway.

Prim appears and sits down next to me, startling me out of my reverie.

"What time is it?" I slur, trying to sit up a little straighter and running my hands over my bald and scabbed scalp, "Urgh, I'm so out of it," I moan, while she checks her watch. It's pretty and silver and I'm pretty sure Mum bought it for her not so long ago, when I was going through chemo and she was having a hard time of it all. A pretty watch won't cure my cancer, but I guess it's the thought that counts. Anyway, it's Prim, not me, that Mum was thinking of. I have been called self-centered many times, and now I'm beginning to appreciate why. Although I will say, I'm pretty sure self-absorption is a rite of passage with cancer.

"Two thirty," Prim says, mimicking my actions and running a hand over her head, though unlike mine, her hand rakes through blonde waves. I feel a pang of jealousy, then remind myself it isn't my place to be jealous of my little sister.

"But there's so long until the end of the surgery…" I groan, placing my face in my hands with resignation, "Primmmm."

"It's not my fault," snorts Prim, pulling my head out of my hands and forcing me into a much better posture, "You should go to sleep, you know."

"I wish," I grumble, "Do I look like someone who has an easy time of sleeping?"

Prim shrugs, "You look like someone who is torturing themselves and ignoring their basic needs in order to commiserate in a state uninterrupted by sleep or eating."

"I'm not commiserating Prim," I snap, "I'm worrying."

"Whatever," sighs Prim, and for a second I think she's going to give up on me - I'm a lost cause after all - and leave me to starve myself and defy sleep until she gets up and begins to walk away, telling me, "I'm off to get you something to eat. And if you're not going to sleep, I'll get you a coffee as well."

"'Kay," I moan, and turn my head away so I don't have to watch her go.

I tap my toes against the smooth, white-tiled floor. I twiddle with the strap of my purple tank top underneath my jacket. I hum a melody whose name I can't place. And I worry, in a constant and uninterrupted manner, twisting my hands nervously when I run out of things to occupy them with. Despite being sick of talking to her mere minutes ago, I am glad when Prim comes back. Anything would be a welcome distraction at this point.

"I've returned," she announces with a very transparent false perkiness, "I have coffee for you."

"What kind?" I ask flatly.

"Double shot of espresso," she informs me, "I figured you'd need it."

I offer out a hand and sip the coffee tentatively. I don't feel any more awake, but I try to give her a grateful smile which I'm pretty sure comes out as a grimace despite my efforts. "Thanks Prim," I lean back against the unpleasantly coloured wall - a shade of yellow not unlike mustard - which constantly gives off the illusion of being dirty, despite hospitals being so clean.

"No problem sis," she smiles a little sadly at me, and takes a bite out of her Subway roll, "What have you got planned for next weekend?"

I shrug, slightly taken aback by this question, "Uh, I don't know Prim," I balance my chin on my fist, "If I'm not in hospital I'll probably be sitting on the couch, watching _Dance Moms_."

Prim snorts, "Of course you will," she picks an olive out of her roll and sucks on it so as to savour the flavour separately from everything else. I roll my eyes at what I deem to be her strange palate. "Shut up you," she notices and gently punches me in the shoulder, swallowing her olive as she does so and clears her throat, "Anyway, if you're not in hospital, which I doubt you will be-"

"Don't count on it," I say grimly, and Prim scowls.

"Thanks for the optimism, sunshine," she flicks her long, blonde hair over her shoulder away from her roll and continues, "I was wondering if maybe, instead of watching some poor girls on TV get yelled at by their dance teacher, you could actually come see a real person dance."

I must look confused, and at that her face crumbles, but Prim recovers herself quickly, as though she doesn't care that I don't understand what she's getting at.

"I've got a dance competition on Saturday," she tells me slowly, "Would you like to come?"

"Yeah," I respond slowly, my brain feels sluggish and all my thoughts continue to be clouded and impaired by the worry that haunts my mind, "Yeah, I'll come watch you Prim."

"Good," she smiles at me, perhaps the first genuine smile I've seen from her in a while, "I promise you I'm much more entertaining than _Dance Moms_."

I'd normally tease her lightly, _"I wouldn't be so sure of that, young one. Abby Lee Miller has a certain charm to her,"_ but I'm both too tired and too heavy of heart and mind, " I'm sure you are Primmy," I agree mindlessly, but she doesn't seem to take my lack of energy to heart. As she lays a hand on the rail on the wall and proceeds to do what I can only assume is some kind of ballet warm up - I have an almost non-existent knowledge of dance - my mind begins to wander back to where it has been so often.

Peeta is in surgery. They are removing his left kidney. His right kidney has been carefully sliced so that the tumour is gone. The new kidney will be placed in place of the old. These are the facts. These are what I cling to.

But separate from the facts, and much more powerfully, grotesque images fill my mind. Blood, guts, scalpels, a pale, blood-drained kidney. Silent surgeons, features obscured by surgical masks, milling around Peeta, my Peeta, whose face is pale and drained, whose abdomen is lying open, revealing his insides. The surgeons, they reach inside him and pull their hands out gingerly, surgical gloves covered in blood. They look at each other, faces aghast. That wasn't meant to happen.

My coffee hits the floor with a dull thud and the liquid spreads over the tiles.

Images blow into hallucinations as the blood begins to stream rapidly out of Peeta's lifeless body and onto the smooth, tiled floor, and one surgeon with red eyes and a wicked look to him picks up a scalpel and slashes away, chunks of flesh flying. Far away, a woman screams a long, piercing scream. A desperate, twisted, chilling scream. A broken-hearted scream.

* * *

"Okay hon, don't get up too quick," a woman whose facial features I can't make out through my blurred vision is bent over me. I am no longer on the same floor I must have collapsed onto, but on a collection of cushioned chairs dragged together, with what I recognise as my green spray jacket folded up under my head. I have no idea where Prim is. As my vision slowly comes back into focus, I try to fight the people who hold me down, but they remain strong.

"Honey," a woman soothes, "Don't fight us. This is serious. You've had a seizure."

A thousand thoughts run through my mind. _A seizure? How much shit do I need to go through? What does this mean? Why? Why me?_ My heart speeds up and fear courses through my body. The women, who I now recognise as nurses, slacken their grip on me, and in that one moment I sit up instinctively and promptly vomit all over myself. The nurses lie me straight back down, and one strokes my forehead in a maternal manner.

"I'm thirsty," I manage to choke out, "I'm really thirsty."

"You, go get her some water," I hear a nurse snap, and realise that the person she's talking to is Prim, who has only just entered the room. Next to her is my mother, who is apparently on a late lunch break.

"Katniss," she says in a hushed voice as Prim swiftly exits the room in search of water. She takes a tentative step towards me, but doesn't seem to know exactly what to do. A nurse, frozen when confronted with her own daughter's illness.

"Oh, Iris," one of the nurses recognises her and takes note of her current mental state, "She's your daughter, yes?"

"Yes," Mum whispers, and her eyes freeze up on some spot in the room, and she is unable to tear them away.

"How about you go find some pants for," she looks at me expectantly.

"Katniss," I rasp, raising my head a little as I do so, only to have it swiftly pushed back down.

"Katniss," the nurse repeats, "Go find some pants for Katniss. You know where to find them, don't you Iris."

"Of course I do," Mum mumbles, finally tearing her eyes away from that place on the wall, "I do work here," and she strolls off, looking slightly lost despite her words.

There is silence in the room as the nurses quietly fuss over me for a minute or two and I lie there obediently. After all, last time I sat up I vomited. Then, once the silence is finally beginning to feel comfortable, Prim skids into the room, the cup of water in her hand sloshing haphazardly, brushing her dishevelled hair out of her face and panting as she begins to catch her breath. She stands up, clears her throat, and declares, "Peeta's awake. And he's fine."

Chaos ensues. I try to sit up again, and vomit again. Apparently I just don't learn. One of the nurses threatens to sedate me, while the others ask me about my medical history. When I tell them I am currently suffering from lymphoma, every single one of them goes quiet and melancholy, and my brain's too muddled to even begin to think about why that might be.

"Please, everyone," I say weakly, "My boyfriend's just come out of theatre and I'd really like to see him-"

"If I were you lovey, I'd wait until my mum came back with those fresh pants. I mean, you wouldn't want to see your boyfriend covered in vomit," one the nurses gives her advice in a commanding tone. I clearly don't have much choice.

"Alright," I sigh, and finally feel good enough to pout in frustration. While I wait, I content myself with chewing my bottom lip broodingly while the nurses continue to fuss.

"We don't want a repeat of the vomiting," one of them says calmly, "I'll go get a stretcher so her sister can wheel her over and she can stay lying down."

"She's probably all vomited out," another countered, but the first nurse to speak shook her head.

"I've seen tiny things like her bring up a whole lot more than that. Let's be safe. After all Lindy, as you said, we don't want her to see her boyfriend covered in her own vomit. Allow the kid some dignity, it's not like there's a shortage of stretcher beds," the nurse nods curtly as she says this, and the others respond with their own meek nods. It's clear who's in charge here. One nurse rushes off for the stretcher bed, while I continue to lay on the chairs and decide to contribute to the conversation.

"Being pushed around on a stretcher bed isn't exactly the epitome of dignity," I say quietly, and the nurses shake their heads collectively.

"Better than being covered in your own filth," says one, and I can't help but concede her that one. Looks like the seizure's taken the fight out of me.

After what feel like agonising hours lying there on my bed of cushioned chairs, Mum returns with the fresh pants, which turn out to be a shocking shade of red, but do fit me quite well, as far as loose cotton pants go. Prim insists on wheeling me while Mum walks by her side, quiet and clearly unsure of what to do.

"Peeta's acting really funny," giggles Prim, "Apparently it's something in the medicine they gave him."

When we finally reach the room where Peeta is recovering, I stretch out my arm to grab his, "Hey Peeta," I say sleepily but happily, my eyes raking over his body to confirm that yes, he is intact. He is alive.

"God Katniss," he murmurs, rubbing his eyes and smiling, "I go out for a few hours, and you're already back in a stretcher bed."

I giggle, "I am so bloody glad you're okay."

"So am I," he agrees, then he props himself up on one elbow, winces with pain, and then decides against it and lies back down, "Katniss," he says, a frown appearing on his face, "What are you wearing?"

"What do you mean Peeta?" I ask, genuinely confused. Is he suffering mental damage?

"I mean," he says, "You should never, ever, ever, wear a purple tank top with red hippie pants. God Katniss, I'll report you to the fashion police."

There was a stunned silence, and then slowly but surely, the room filled with laughter. My laughter, Prim's laughter, Peeta's laughter, the doctor's laughter and the nurses' laughter, Mr Mellark's laughter and even my mother's laughter. And for a moment, just a moment, it is as though Peeta didn't just have surgery and I didn't just have a seizure, and everything is simply okay.

I only wish it could stay like that forever.

* * *

**Yay it's here! Peeta's okay! I wish I could say the same for Katniss though... I promise you, I do feel bad for doing all this to her. Any clever people know why the nurses freaked out when she said she had lymphoma? I am sorry for the long wait, I decided to write a uh, 'short story' and it ended up 20,000 words and took up a lot of time. Oops. It could be a long wait until the next chapter - I have three weeks of camps coming up, and I don't know if I can get a chapter up before that. I'm sorry, I'm really a horrible author. Shhh. Hope you enjoyed this chapter :) Reviews are the best gifts ;) -L**


	15. Don't Overthink Things

_Ways to Cope With Cancer_

_1. Think about your facts._

_2. Grit your teeth and suck it up. (If this fails, run like the wind.) Please note: this may not be a completely valid way of coping, but is maintained on this list out of respect for Rue O'Laughlan, co-writer of our List._

_3. Break a law or a rule._

_4. Risk your miserable little life - everybody dies, cancer or no cancer. Remember, some ways of dying are preferable to others._

_5. No. 5 has been removed from this list as it makes twelve year old sisters cry._

_6. Forget the bad days. Put all your effort into being happy. To everyone. Even those you hate._

_7. Give into your feelings. Take the leap. Do what they tell you to do._

_8. Cut up cooking chocolate. Don't question our wisdom. Just do it. You'll know what we're talking about once you try it._

_9. Find a healthy person who doesn't treat you any differently for your disease. Then take them to Vegas and marry them._

_10. Think of ways it could be worse. All the ways. I promise you, they exist._

_11. Prove a point. There is a beautiful satisfaction which sprouts only from the words, 'I told you so.'_

_12. Think about better days. We've all had them - those blissful days where you haven't once wanted to die._

_13. Have something to pray to. Religion is more useful than you'd think. It helps, albeit temporarily._

_14. Have a fashion sense. Please. Peeta is begging you._

_15. Sometimes it's best not to think too much. Overthinking can kill you._

* * *

"Oh my God Katniss, you are not."

I look up guiltily from my position on the couch, my legs tucked under my body, a blanket wrapped around me.

"Katniss you are not watching_ Dance Moms_," Peeta repeats, folding his arms.

"Shh," I tease, not turning away from the TV, instead holding a hand out behind me as if to tell Peeta to halt, "Chloe's going to win with her solo," I pause, then in answer to the bemused expression of Peeta's face I add, "She's my favourite."

"How do you know Chloe's going to win?" Peeta asks teasingly.

"Because this one, Maddie, she's going to forget her solo," I explain patiently, still not taking my eyes off the screen.

"How many times have you seen this episode?" Peeta asks witheringly, but I can hear the humour shining through his voice.

"Um, maybe three," I confess, "Oh, look at poor Maddie, she's in hysterics! Look Peeta, look!"

"I refuse to look," I can imagine Peeta rolling his perfect blue eyes, "And I'm not letting you watch either. She's a poor little nine year old who's been overworked and pressured too hard. You don't need to watch this all afternoon."

"I might," I protest feebly, but I let him grab my skinny arm and haul me off the couch.

"Ok, fine, fine," I smile as I put on my shoes, "I don't need to see Chloe win. Where are we going?"

"We're going… I'm not exactly sure," Peeta shrugs, "I'm sure we won't make it far. Where's your mum anyway? I thought she took time off work to keep a constant watch on you?"

"She did," I sigh, "But she eventually had to leave, despite her best efforts not to. We ran out of codeine."

"Sounds like an emergency," Peeta says reasonably, "When will she be back?"

"Oh, I don't know," I sigh, "Forget about her."

"Alright," Peeta complies calmly, and holds my hand as we walk meekly through my kitchen, feet audible against the floorboards. I don't know why it feels so eerie, I don't know why we feel the need to be so silent. It's as though the whole world is holding it's breath, but without telling us why. We step out onto the edge of the street, as deserted as usual. We stand still, in the damp grass, and as I reshuffle my feet to get a better look at the boy standing next to me, I feel sharp rocks poke against my freezing feet.

"Hey Peeta," I say with a smirk, "How did you know Maddie's nine and overworked?"

He blushes a little but keeps a mysterious smiles on his face, "Well..."

He doesn't go on, and I laugh at him, before we lapse into silence again.

"I'm cold," I say eventually, "Freezing," and Peeta looks relieved.

"Oh good, so am I," he admits, "But I didn't want to interrupt your meaningful gazing into the distance."

"I was looking at you," I point out, and he smiles.

"I had no idea," he says earnestly, "But I'm flattered."

We make our way back to the house very slowly, even though it's only the walk through my mediocre front yard and it should really only take a few steps. Asides from my numb feet encountering loose rocks from the gravel on the road, I'm sick. Peeta's sick. We shuffle forward like old people, and I feel like we are the same. It would be a nice feeling, except that I know Peeta's on the way up, and me? I'm probably going nowhere but down.

_Don't say that Katniss. One more 'down' will be the end for you._

I gulp, tears suddenly welling up hot behind my eyes. My jaw begins to ache in that way that it always does when I hold back tears.

_For fuck's sake Katniss. Don't say that either._

We return inside, and while I imagine I look about as lost as I feel, Peeta clearly has a plan. He ascends our stairs confidently, but slowly. I see him wince and tenderly lay a hand on his abdomen, and cringe inwardly, feeling his pain for him. They say that can happen, when people reach a level of closeness. Although I think you have to be very young, and to have been together since infancy… Maybe I just have a stomach ache. I groan at the thought of it.

_What's wrong with you now? Everything._

I am still standing at the base of the stairs, frozen in my position as I mentally debate whether I have a stomach ache or if I'm just making it up or if I've developed some inexplicable connection with Peeta, when a whole bunch of blankets and God knows what else, falls from upstairs and lands directly on my head. Despite having a whole host of cloth dumped unceremoniously on my head, I continue to remain quite still until I feel them whipped off me, and instead of darkness, I can see Peeta grinning boyishly.

"Rug up," he says rather cheerfully, dumping what I now recognise as my onesie and some ugg boots and a blanket on me, and he begins to drape blankets over his thin frame and dons a pink beanie of mine and several scarfs.

"Pink," I say with a slight smirk as I pull my feet into my ugg boots, toppling over into the banister of the stairs as I do so, "Looks good on you Peeta."

"I know," he says confidently, and flashes me a winning smile. I can't help but return it, admittedly tentatively .

"Why are we doing all this?" I ask, now delving my fingers into green gloves that look somewhat like woolly vomit. Or a much nicer alternative, such as avocados, as Peeta points out.

"Because we're going outside and we're not going to be cold because being cold sucks," Peeta explains himself quickly and easily. I wonder what it must be like to have all your thoughts so well ordered and ready to go. I don't know what my own body is doing half the time, let alone my intentions for the future. I could never be as beautifully spoken as Peeta, I realise. He picks up a picnic rug with a mercifully waterproof bottom, and unloads it into my arms with the orders, "Hold that, and wait one second."

He disappears into my kitchen, looking stupid with fluffy socks under his shoes, because apparently Prim's blue fluffy sucks are just so warm, (how he knew this ahead of time, I do not want to know,) and returns with Maltesers, M&Ms, Doritos and a supermarket cake that I'm too excited to tell him is meant to be for dessert tonight in honour of who knows what. Emptying his armful of junk food onto the blanket I'm holding then taking the whole package off me courteously, (as if he didn't just make me hold them for a few minutes with no explanation) he leads our meagre procession out the rickety side door into our garden.

In this area of the garden the grass is at it's longest, which doesn't give it a great look, but is redeemed a little by the apple tree, which I'll admit is much more impressive in say, spring or summer, and not bloody winter. Peeta, however, seems happy with my less than exciting yard and happily plonks down the picnic blanket and our abundance of food.

"So, Kat-a-kat," he says easily, raising his eyebrows cheekily and making a smug face at my undeniably predictable reaction to this nickname, "Isn't it nice not to be watching Dance Moms? Is it nice to smell the fresh air once in a while?"

"Fresh air is cold," I say, wrinkling my almost numb nose, "But the M&Ms are good," I help myself to another, "And my company's a little more than mediocre."

"Oh joy, I'm no longer mediocre!" Peeta exclaims in melodramatic ecstasy, "A celebratory M&M is in order, I think."

We clink M&Ms, then I eat mine ravenously, (I really haven't been eating enough,) while Peeta inspects his carefully.

Eventually, after perhaps a minute of blatantly obvious expectant looks from my direction, Peeta speaks, saying with some satisfaction, "This M&M is orange."

I snort, "It took you that long to figure th-"

He cuts me off, taking his eyes off the M&M and turning them to me, two blue orbs surrounded by black shadows, which do not make them less impressive, but to the contrary, make them stand out more, "Orange, just like you, my girl on fire," he smiles at me with a kind of happiness that I don't quite understand, and eats the M&M, after doing which he looks a little sad.

I clear my throat, and when he doesn't react - rather continues to gaze forlornly into the distance - I begin to speak, slowly and hesitantly, "Peeta," I stumble over the words I haven't even yet articulated in my head, then draw a deep breath and try again, "Peeta, if we're talking about my metaphorical flames here…" another breath, steeling myself to finish the sentence, "Do you really think I'd still be orange?"

This does get him to look at me, but it's a look of pity and one I can barely stand. I look at my hands, wrapped up in their insane gloves, folding over one another, supporting my weight on the tartan picnic rug, "Wouldn't I be… a kind of mediocre black? Like coals about to go out?"

Peeta shakes his head sadly, "Don't make assumptions Kat, and if you're going to, don't make negative ones. None of us know what that seizure was about, but it doesn't necessarily mean you're doomed, there's no hope, everyone cry now and give up living."

I feel bad, like he's resenting me for my self-pity and grim outlook on life, which I suppose he is. My stomach drops, and it feels as though a weight is pressing on my chest, "I'm sorry-" I begin, tears welling up for the second time today, "I can't do this. I can't do anything right and-"

Peeta cuts me off with a kiss, fierce at first then trailing away until it is gentler than a moth's touch, fluttering upon my lips.

"Talk less Kat," he says with a smile, then frowns as though he's forgotten something, and amends himself, "Actually, don't. That's not your problem. Your problem is that you think too much. You think everything to death. Whether it's metaphorical flame or an M&M or a seizure or a dream or a protein shake-"

"You came up with the metaphorical flame thing," I say defensively, "And started talking about me being like an orange M&M."

"My apologies," he says drily, and we both sigh simultaneously. Neither or us like fighting, even if this is about as intense as our fights get. Nothing like Gale and I - a good scream-off is in order every time we meet these days. But if I die I'm going to miss him…

Tears well up for the third time today, and finally, I let them come through, a slow trickle of hot tears running over my cold face. I suppose that's okay and kind of peaceful, but I change my mind when my body decides not to stop there. My breathing gets ragged and the tears flow faster. A splitting forehead snakes it's way through me until it feels as though my whole forehead is being rent apart. As my sobbing gets progressively grosser, my respiratory system conjures up several strange noises which are squeezed unceremoniously from my mouth.

Peeta swings from his previous absent self into super-protective-boyfriend mode, wrapping me up in his arms and laying my head on the crook of his shoulder. He soothes me with gentle words and tenderly rubs my back in slow circles, never ending and eternally comforting. I am happy in his arms, peaceful and warm and everything else that feels right, until I notice his arms. The blankets have slipped off his body and it is now that I see it.

Anyone else would see Peeta and see him as skinny. He is skinny - he looks chronically and seriously ill. But he's looking better. Other people may not be able to see it, but I know Peeta more than most people. I've known him for years upon years, and I've spent the past few months of my life intensely taking in all of his details, all the beauty and the imperfections. And now I see, more clearly than ever, that his skin is a shade or two darker, closer to a healthy glow than deathly pale. The beginnings of muscles snake across his arms, slightly thicker than I've come to know.

"Have your immunosuppressant meds been going well?" I ask in a small voice, "Is the doctor happy?"

"Yeah," he answers, squeezing me a little tighter, "Yeah, I'm all good. It's slow, but it's working for now."

My body does something strange in that moment. My heart soars - Peeta is feeling better. Peeta is getting better. Peeta looks better. Peeta is medically acknowledged to be getting better. I am so happy for him, and I'm not jealous. Not like I used to be. I'm at peace with myself. That's not the problem. The problem is that I'm not sure if I'm at peace with Peeta. All of a sudden, his only vaguely muscled arms seem alien, and feel suffocating around my frame. His skin looks too bright. I pull out of his embrace, and his eyes look brighter too. His face less sunken. I don't fit in with this healthy world.

He looks at me, with surprise and hurt captured poignantly in those marginally brighter and less sunken eyes. The shadows are still noticeable, yes, but nowhere near as accentuated. He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't know what to say. For once, Peeta Mellark has been rendered speechless. And with him, much more predictably, I am speechless as well. My brain leaps frantically, searching and searching for the perfect thing to say. Something to take the hurt away from Peeta. Preferably a lie.

But I can't find it, and so my tortured and exhausted brain comes up with something far from perfect to say, "I miss Gale."

Peeta's face darkens, and he gets to his feet.

_Come on Katniss_, I urge myself, _think of something to make this better_.

Needless to say, I don't.

"I can't be around you right now," I choke out, and Peeta turns away, shrugging the blankets and walking away, his feet still absurdly cloaked in those ridiculous socks of my sister's. I lie there on my blanket, sobbing into a blanket discarded from Peeta's shoulders that still smells of his slightly more alive scent, feeling sick as hell. Mum gets home eventually, fully stocked up with codeine and strawberries, which are a real treat considering they're out of season. She picks me up off the floor, which just makes me feel sicker - how light am I now? - and gently places me on the couch, where _Dance Moms_ is still playing. As Chloe is announced as the winner, Mum busies herself putting away all the food Peeta and I dragged outside, sensibly not asking me what happened. I'm grateful at first, then feel the need to say something. She gives off an aura of expectation.

I clear my mucus filled throat and keep my eyes locked on the screen as I say, "I'm going to think myself to death at this rate."

* * *

**I didn't get everything into this chapter that I wanted to, but I had to finish it up because I just got back from one camp yesterday and I'm leaving for another one on Monday - HOLY FUCK SHIT NOT ANOTHER ONE I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH ENERGY FOR THIS - and so I thought I'd give you something, even if it is unsatisfying. Otherwise it would probably be like another two weeks and that would just be cruel, wouldn't it? **

**I promise things will actually happen in the next one. Please believe me :) -L**


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